[“HE’S KILLED. THEY’RE KILLED!” CRIED SCORES.]

THE MOTOR BOYS

OR

CHUMS THROUGH THICK AND THIN

By CLARENCE YOUNG

AUTHOR OF “THE MOTOR BOYS OVERLAND,” “THE MOTOR BOYS IN MEXICO,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON CO.

BOOKS BY CLARENCE YOUNG

THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES
(Trade Mark, Reg. U. S. Pat. Of.)

12mo. Illustrated

Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid

THE MOTOR BOYS
Or Chums Through Thick and Thin

THE MOTOR BOYS OVERLAND
Or A Long Trip for Fun and Fortune

THE MOTOR BOYS IN MEXICO
Or The Secret of the Buried City

THE MOTOR BOYS ACROSS THE PLAINS
Or The Hermit of Lost Lake

THE MOTOR BOYS AFLOAT
Or The Stirring Cruise of the Dartaway

THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE ATLANTIC
Or The Mystery of the Lighthouse

THE MOTOR BOYS IN STRANGE WATERS
Or Lost in a Floating Forest

THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE PACIFIC
Or The Young Derelict Hunters

THE MOTOR BOYS IN THE CLOUDS
Or A Trip for Fame and Fortune

THE JACK RANGER SERIES

12mo. Finely Illustrated

Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid

JACK RANGER’S SCHOOLDAYS
Or The Rivals of Washington Hall

JACK RANGER’S WESTERN TRIP
Or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range

JACK RANGER’S SCHOOL VICTORIES
Or Track, Gridiron and Diamond

JACK RANGER’S OCEAN CRUISE
Or The Wreck of the Polly Ann

JACK RANGER’S GUN CLUB
Or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail

Copyright, 1906, by
Cupples & Leon Company

The Motor Boys

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PREFACE.

Dear Boys:

Here is a brand-new line of stories for you, to be issued under the general title of “The Motor Boys Series.”

The motor-cycle of to-day is fast taking the place of the ordinary bicycle, and the automobile, or auto, as it is commonly called, is taking the place of our horses. This being so, it has occurred to the writer to prepare a line of stories, telling of the doings of a number of lively, up-to-date lads who at first own motor-cycles and later on become the proud possessors of a touring car.

This tale before you, “The Motor Boys,” is the first volume of the series, telling of the doings of Ned, Bob, Jerry and their chums in and around their home town. Some stirring races are mentioned, and also the wicked plots of some enemies to bring our heroes to grief. At the races some fine prizes were put up, and Ned, Bob and Jerry did their best to carry off the honors. In the meantime there was a mysterious robbery of a mill, and what the lads did to solve this riddle I leave to the chapters, which follow, to relate.

This story of “The Motor Boys” will be followed by a second volume, to be called “The Motor Boys Overland,” and then by a third, “The Motor Boys in Mexico.” I hope these volumes will please my boy readers.

Clarence Young.

January 9, 1906.

THE MOTOR BOYS.

[CHAPTER I.]
AN ENCOUNTER ON BICYCLES.

“Hi, Ned! what do you say to a little race?”

“I’m ready,” called Ned Slade.

“How about you, Jerry?”

“Oh, I’m always ready,” answered Jerry Hopkins, tossing aside the core of an apple he had been eating. “But how far is the race to be, Chunky?”

“To the oak tree,” replied Bob Baker.

“Suits me,” said Jerry. “All aboard!”

The three bicyclists rose from the grass where they had been resting in the shade of a big maple tree, after a trip of about five miles on their bicycles around the country outside of the village of Cresville, where they lived. Cresville was a pleasant town, not a great many miles from Boston.

The three boys were chums, and had been ever since they had started to school together, eight years previous. There was Bob, the son of Andrew Baker, who was counted one of the wealthiest men in Cresville. His interests were varied, but were mainly in banks and banking institutions. Besides Bob there was in the family a daughter Susie. Bob was fourteen years old, and Susie two years younger, and Bob was so much inclined to stoutness that he was sometimes called “Chunky” by his chums.

Ned was the only child of Aaron Slade, owner of the largest department store in the town, and a well-off merchant. As for Jerry he lived with his widowed mother, and his sister Julia Hopkins, a girl whom it would do your heart good to know, she was so jolly and full of fun. The death of Mr. Hopkins, a few years previous, had left his widow with an ample income, which she devoted to the bringing up of her children. Jerry and Ned were the same age, fifteen years.

All three boys were sturdy chaps, full of life and energy. They had studied, played and fought together so long that they had come to be regarded as three inseparables by the townspeople.

“Now are you fellows ready for the word?” asked Bob, steadying his wheel in a line with the other two.

“Let her go!” called Jerry.

“Sing out, Chunky!” shouted Ned.

There was a moment of suspense, and a momentary thrill over even so slight a thing as this little sprint among the three boys. Each one meant to win.

“Go!” yelled Bob.

In an instant the wheels were started off. Three boys bounded into three saddles. Three pairs of feet began to pump the pedals desperately. A cloud of dust arose and the race was on.

It was a distance of half a mile from the maple tree, where the start was made, to the oak which Bob had designated as the winning post. The road was a good hard level stretch of macadam and the wheels fairly spun along it.

At first the boys were on even terms. Then Bob gradually drew away from Ned and Jerry. Seeing this Ned put an extra ounce or two into his pushing and he soon caught up to Bob. These two held the lead on almost a line for a few hundred feet.

Suddenly there was a whirr of wheels behind them, an excited joyous shout and, with a yell, Jerry whizzed past, and obtained such a good advantage that he kept it, until he reached the oak, where he leaped off, and cast himself down in the shade to rest.

“I didn’t think you could do it, Jerry,” panted Ned, as he and Bob flashed up two seconds later. “Honest, I didn’t.”

“Nor I,” came from Bob. “You must have been practicing lately.”

“Well, I thought I ought to try and improve my wheel-work,” said Jerry modestly. “I’m thinking of going in the club races that will be held soon, and I wanted to stand some sort of a show.”

“I’d say you stood a pretty good one, if you ride like you did to-day,” interposed Ned. “You went past us flying, and Bob and I weren’t going so slow, either; were we, Bob?”

“Not exactly.”

For a few minutes the boys lolled lazily in the grass, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. Then Bob took three apples from his pocket and treated.

“Do you fellows know what I wish?” began Jerry, who had finished his light lunch first. “I wish we all had motor-cycles.”

“It wouldn’t be a half-bad idea,” agreed Bob, after a little thought. “I’m beginning to get a little tired of this leg-work, myself. How about you, Ned?”

“I think I could use a motor-cycle if one came my way,” replied Ned. “That is after I learned how to operate one, and wouldn’t blow myself and the immediate neighborhood up with gasolene.”

“They’re easy to run,” affirmed Jerry, “and no more dangerous than a horse. The catalogue I have says so.”

“That reminds me, are you two going in the bicycle races?” asked Jerry. “You know there are going to be some fine prizes.”

“You mean the Cresville Athletic Club races?” asked Ned.

“Yes,” replied Jerry.

“I hadn’t thought much of it,” said Bob. “I heard about ’em, but it takes a lot of time to train, and you have to almost starve yourself.”

“How about you, Ned?”

“Well, if you and Bob go in for it, Jerry, I s’pose I might as well too. Tell us what you know about the races.”

Jerry related what he had heard about the plans of the athletic club to hold an out-door meet on their grounds three weeks hence. As he had said, several valuable prizes were to be awarded, and there were many classes of handicap contests, so that the boys would have plenty of chances to enter, and stand a good show of winning one or more of the trophies.

“It sounds good,” said Ned at length.

“I’m going to enter, and begin training at once,” decided Chunky.

“Same here, then,” came from Ned. “Have you entered yet, Jerry?”

“No, but I’ve begun to train some. There’s plenty of time to send in your name if you want to enter. The lists are open until five days before the races.”

“All right, then it’s settled,” exclaimed Ned, slowly rising from his comfortable berth in the grass.

The three boys mounted their wheels and started slowly homeward. They took their time, keeping close together and talking now of the coming races and again of the prospects of owning motor-cycles. At the top of a long, gentle sloping hill, that led down, almost to the centre of the town, the boys put their feet on the coasters and let their wheels glide down by gravity. Soon they were going at a rapid rate, with Ned slightly in the lead.

At the foot of the hill another road crossed at right angles. By reason of a turn to this second road, and a clump of trees, any one passing along it could not be seen until he was nearly in the middle of the hill road.

Suddenly there shot from behind the clump of trees lining the cross-road, a figure on a wheel.

“Look out!” yelled Bob and Jerry.

Ned looked up and saw, but was too late. He could not check his speed, and the only thing to do was to turn to one side, and try to avoid the other rider. Unfortunately the other rider, also seeing the danger, took the same turn as had Ned.

“There’s going to be a smash!” called Jerry in excited tones.

The shock threw Ned and the other cyclist from their wheels into the dusty road. The bicycles went in one direction and the riders in another. Both boys were lying still on the highway when Bob and Jerry came running up.

“Are they killed?” asked Jerry in a trembling voice.

“No, only stunned, I guess,” answered Bob, feeling of Ned’s heart, and finding it beating. “Let’s see who the other fellow is.”

He turned the boy who had collided with Ned over.

“Noddy Nixon!” he said. “He’ll be sure to say this was Ned’s fault, and it may make trouble. I wish Ned had put on his brake.”

Ned sat up and opened his eyes. A few seconds later Noddy Nixon did likewise.

“What happened?” gasped Ned, rubbing the dust from his eyes.

“You had a little spill, that’s all,” answered Bob.

“A little spill? I should say we did,” snarled Noddy, who was larger and stronger than any of the three chums, and older, being about eighteen. “A nasty little spill it was, too. And all your fault, Ned Slade! Why didn’t you look where you were going?”

“Why didn’t you look?” asked Ned, hotly. “I turned out to avoid you, and if you’d been paying attention you wouldn’t have steered right into me. It’s as much your fault as it is mine.”

“My leg’s broke,” came from Noddy. “You’ll suffer for this!”

“Get up and let’s see if it’s broken,” urged Bob, taking hold of Noddy’s shoulder.

“Oh! Ouch!” screamed Noddy, who though he was strong and a bully was also a great coward in pain. “My shoulder’s broken, too. I’ll sue you for this, Ned Slade, after I get well, and I’ll lick you, too.”

“Oh, dry up!” muttered Ned, who was painfully limping toward his wheel.

When Noddy came to move he discovered that he was not as badly hurt as he had foolishly imagined. He got on his feet, brushed the dirt from his clothes, and found that he could walk all right. But he scowled darkly when he saw Bob grinning at him.

“You’re more scared than hurt,” said Bob.

“Look here, you impudent little snob!” burst out Noddy, limping over toward the boy who was still smiling. “Don’t give me any of your lip. I won’t stand it. I’ll knock your head off!”

“Better not try,” advised Bob quietly, the smile leaving his face. “Two can play at that game.”

“Yes, and so can we all of us!” broke in Jerry, who was something of a boxer. “We’re sorry for what happened, Nixon,” he went on, “but you needn’t rub it in.”

“Oh, shut-up!” cried Noddy, turning away, and picking up his wheel. “I’ll get even with you for this, though,” he muttered.

“Two of my spokes are broken,” he went on, after an examination of his bicycle. “You’ll have to pay for them, Ned Slade.”

“So are two of mine, and my handle bars are bent,” retorted Ned. “I guess we’ll call it even, Noddy. I won’t charge you for straightening the handles,” and he laughed in spite of the pain of his bruises.

“You—you!” began Noddy, but rage seemed to choke him, and with scowling face he mounted his wheel and rode slowly away. “You just wait!” he shouted back, shaking his head at the three boys.

[CHAPTER II.]
A MEAN PLOT.

“Well,” began Bob, when the three chums were ready to proceed on their way, Ned having been brushed off, “I’d like to have Noddy for a close friend, I don’t think! Wonder what makes him so mean?”

“Born so, I s’pose,” grunted Ned. “Any one else would have laughed over such an accident. He seemed to think I did it on purpose.”

“He talks as though he did,” ventured Jerry. “I wonder what he’ll do to get square?”

“Oh something sneaking, you may depend on it,” replied Bob. “That’s the way with Noddy and his kind. He’s nothing but a big bully. Never fights with any one but some one he’s sure he can whip. I don’t know’s I could lick him, but I’d like to try once.”

“Me too,” said Ned, “after I get over being stiff.”

When Jack Pender, who was a toady of Noddy Nixon, called on the latter in a sort of club-house in Nixon’s yard that night, he found the bully in no amiable frame of mind.

“What’s the matter?” asked Jack.

“None of your business,” snapped Nixon, lighting a cigarette.

“You needn’t be so cross,” whined Jack, who was used to rather shabby treatment from the bully, to whom he toadied in the hope of favors.

“I guess you’d be cross if you had the tumble I did to-day,” growled Noddy.

“Somebody knock you down?” asked Pender, incautiously.

“Somebody knock me down? I’d like to see ’em try it,” boasted Noddy. “No. I was out taking a spin, and that young cub of a Ned Slade tried to upset me. I got even with him, though,” added Noddy, to whom telling the truth did not come natural. “I gave his wheel a twist and sent him flying. I guess he won’t forget his fall in a hurry. He got worse than I did,” which was not so, though Jack did not know it.

“Serves him good and right,” chuckled the toady. “I can’t bear Ned. He’s too uppish. Thinks because his father has a little money he’s better than the rest of us. And I haven’t any use for his chums, Bob and Jerry.”

“Same here,” agreed Noddy, lighting another cigarette. “But I’ll get even with ’em. My father has as much money as any of their fathers’ has. They needn’t think they can down me.”

“Bully for you,” cried Jack, hoping to curry favor. “I’d like a chance to get even too.”

“Maybe it will come before you think it will.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jack in a whisper.

“Never mind,” replied Noddy. “I’ll tell you when the time comes.”

For some time the two cronies sat and talked in the structure, which Noddy had fixed up as a resort where he might smoke cigarettes, a practice his father had forbidden him.

“Going in the club races?” asked Jack at length. “I hear there will be some fine prizes, and a little chance to make money.”

“You mean on the winners?”

“Sure. I got the tips straight from one of the trainers. There’ll be a pretty penny in it for us.”

“It’s worth looking into,” decided Noddy. “But about my racing. I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose I could go in.”

After some further talk both Jack and Noddy decided they would enter their names for several events in the bicycle class. When they parted that night they agreed to meet the next evening to discuss details.

Not long after dusk the following night Jack and Noddy were in close consultation in “the coop.”

“I hear Ned, Bob and Jerry are going to enter the races,” said Jack, after a short conversation.

“Why, you’re not afraid of them, are you?” asked Jack.

“I know I can beat either Ned, Bob or Jerry. The only thing is I’m not in good training and I can’t spare the time. I’m faster than either of them for a short sprint,” which he was. “But in a long race they might down me.”

Jack did not think it wise to comment on the bully’s change of ideas.

“If the races were hundred-yard dashes I wouldn’t worry a bit,” said Noddy. “I could win hands down. But the best race is for three miles, and that—that’s rather a long distance for me. If we could fix things—”

“How fix?” inquired Jack.

“Well,” proceeded Noddy boldly, “I mean to win that race. There’s a first prize, worth three hundred dollars, and I want it. I’m going to get it. That’s all. If I can’t win by fair means—”

“I see,” whispered Jack softly.

“I’m glad you do,” retorted Noddy, lighting a cigarette. “I may need your help. We must beat them, Jack. I hate them!”

Thereupon the two cronies resumed their whisperings, talking in low tones, for they were fearful of being overheard in their plotting.

Within the next few days arrangements for the races of the athletic club went rapidly on. Bob, Ned and Jerry entered their names, Ned finding that he had no permanent lameness from his “spill.” Noddy and Jack also had their names entered. Then all the boys, including many others who had decided to try for the prizes, began training.

There were several events on the race card. There were ten and five mile races, but none of the boys thought of trying for them. There were also short distance trys for girls, and also a three mile race, for boys and young men between fourteen and nineteen years of age. The first prize was a three hundred dollar piano, or any other article of that value, and the second and third prizes were of one hundred and fifty and one hundred dollars value respectively. Of course each of our heroes hoped to win big prizes, and there was a keen but friendly rivalry among them.

[CHAPTER III.]
THE DAY OF THE RACES.

At last came the day for the races. It was early in July, and the weather though warm, was not oppressive. Early in the morning a big crowd started out toward the grounds of the Cresville Athletic Club, which were about a mile outside of the town proper.

Ned, Bob and Jerry reached the track about ten o’clock, and found it pretty well occupied.

“It will give us good practice in wheeling in a crowd,” observed Jerry as he stripped off his sweater and, in regular racing costume, began to make the circuits.

His two friends soon followed his example. A little later Noddy and Jack arrived. The two cronies kept to themselves and spoke no word to our three heroes.

About noon-time there was a general stopping and all the contestants who were warming up went to get something to eat. Under Jerry’s advice Ned and Bob ate and drank sparingly.

The races were to begin at two o’clock. Long before that hour most of the best seats were filled, and there was a crowd on the way to the athletic grounds that would tax the capacity of the bleachers.

About half-past one o’clock a rather gaunt individual might have been seen making his way toward the athletic grounds. He wore a pair of patched trousers and a green coat, with a red patch on either elbow.

“Hi there!” called some boys. “Look at the hobo going to enter the races.”

“Oh, I may be a hobo, but I’m not a dodo; put that in your pipe and smoke it till night. That ain’t a good rhyme, but it’ll do this time,” recited the man in a sing-song tone.

“Ha! Ha! Isn’t he funny!” laughed some small boys.

Hearing the sound of laughter Ned, Bob and Jerry, who were walking together in the fields, a short distance away from the athletic grounds, came over.

“Why it’s Old Pete!” cried Bob. “Hello Pete! I say, Old Pete Bumps!” he called, waving his hand to the man with a green coat and a red patch on either elbow.

“Oh, I say, is that you, why how do you do?” said Mr., otherwise Old Pete Bumps, who was a general man of all work about Mr. Baker’s place. He did everything from feeding the chickens to taking out the ashes.

“Hello Pete!” called Jerry and Ned in chorus. “What did you come for? Are you going to race?”

“Am I going to race? Well not in this place,” replied Pete gravely. “I came to watch over you boys. Be a sort of general overseer as it were. Look after the wheels and see that they get full meals,” he added without a smile.

From which it may be inferred that Mr. Bumps was something of a character.

Indeed at one time he had been a well educated man. But an injury to his head, caused by a fall, and a number of misfortunes, had displaced him from a life of comparative wealth, and had made him a sort of foolish, though very loving, elderly man. Mr. Baker had taken pity on him and made a place for him, for which poor Old Pete Bumps, as he called himself, was very grateful. He was very fond of children, especially boys, and was always looking after the interests of Bob and his chums.

“Now Pete can look after our wheels,” said Bob. “I was wondering who we could leave in charge between the heats, and while we were dressing. He’ll be the very one.”

“Surely will I, e’en though I die,” said Pete gravely, for he had a habit of making extemporaneous rhymes on all occasions, which jingles sometimes fitted and sometimes did not.

“All right, Pete,” said Bob. “Come on over here,” and he led the hired man to where the boys had left their three wheels in charge of a lad of their acquaintance, who had agreed to stand guard at the rate of five cents a half hour. Pete gravely squatted down on the grass near the bicycles.

Relieved of the responsibility of guarding their mounts, the trio of lads wandered about the grounds of the club. There was much bustle and excitement. New riders were constantly arriving and going out on the track to warm up. Hundreds of spectators were coming afoot, or in carriages or automobiles. Flags waved gaily in the wind, and the whole scene was a spirited one. A bevy of girls coming up the road that led to the entrance of the grounds attracted the attention of our three heroes.

“Looks like my sister Susie with that red dress on,” said Bob.

“And that seems to be Julia, in that green hat,” observed Jerry. “Yes, that’s her,” he went on. “I can tell by her laugh,” he added, as a merry peal floated over the green field.

“Who are the girls with them?” asked Ned, who had no sisters, but who was as fond of girls as they were of him.

“There’s Mollie Horton, who lives near me,” said Ned. “She’s jolly enough. And Alice Vines. I don’t know who the other one is.”

“That’s Helen Gale,” put in Bob. “I know her. She made that silk flag with our foot-ball colors on last year for me.”

“Good for her!” exclaimed Ned.

The girls soon came up, and there was merry talk for a little while. The boys wanted to take the girls over and buy some ice-cream sodas.

“We haven’t time,” objected Julia. “We want to get our seats before the races begin. We don’t want to miss a one.”

“You won’t miss anything,” assured Ned.

“Oh but we might,” interposed Alice. “And it is not every day we can come to such a big event as this. If you boys want to get the sodas afterward—”

“Of course we will,” broke in Jerry. And so they agreed to treat the girls after the races.

Not long after Pete had been left in charge of the cycles a man, wearing a slouch hat, who had been but a few minutes before in close consultation with Jack Pender, shuffled up to where Pete was lying in the grass.

“Arternoon, mate,” said the roughly dressed man in a growling voice.

“How do you do, I’m glad to see you,” replied Pete, in his sweetest tones.

“What yer givin’ us?” demanded the stranger.

“Me? I gave you nothing, sir,” replied Pete.

“Come off your high perch then, an’ talk United States,” went on the stranger gruffly. “My name’s Bill Berry, what’s yours?”

“My name’s Pete Bumps, I’m full of humps,” recited Pete gravely.

“You look it,” commented Bill Berry. “But I say, mate,” he went on, “how would you like to go off and get a good smoke? Come, I’ll pay for it?”

“I’d like it first rate, but I must stay here quite late,” said Pete.

“Why so? Oh, I don’t know,” mocked Bill, falling into the eccentric mood of his companion.

“To guard the wheels against the steals,” replied Pete.

“Don’t let that worry you,” went on Bill, eagerly. “I’ll stay here. You go get yourself something to smoke, and take your time. I’ll stand guard while you’re away.”

If there was one thing more than another that Old Pete liked, it was to smoke. Usually he had to forego this pleasure because of lack of funds. Now here was a chance to indulge. So, after receiving twenty-five cents from Bill Berry, Pete started over to the grand stand, near which was a booth where cigars and refreshments were sold.

Bill looked narrowly about as soon as Pete was out of sight. There were plenty of people around him, but no one seemed to be noticing what he was doing. Quickly Bill pulled a wrench from his pocket and used it on each of the three bicycles. Then he brought out a stick of something black.

“This graphite is well doctored,” he muttered. “I guess it won’t be healthy for the chains.”

He rubbed a liberal supply on the chain of each wheel, and also on the sprockets. Then he rapidly opened the tool bags on each machine, took out the graphite he found there, and substituted some of his own.

“I guess that will do the trick,” he said softly. “And I guess I’ve earned my two dollars, Jack Pender.”

He hurried off, mingled with the crowd, and a little later was in conversation with Jack Pender.

A little later Pete came hurrying back. He was smoking a cheap cigar, and his pockets bulged with others.

“Here you go, Bill, now smoke with a will,” began Pete, when he drew near where he had left his new friend in charge of the boys’ bicycles. “Why, he’s gone,” he went on, seeing the deserted mounts. “Wonder where he went?” However, he did not give much thought to it, and went on smoking happily.

“Wheels all right?” asked Ned a few minutes after, as he, Jerry and Bob came up.

“Right as a fiddle, come high-diddle,” recited Pete.

“Hark! What’s that?” asked Chunky suddenly. “Sounds like an announcement.”

The three boys ran nearer the grand stand where the official announcer stood. The man was using a small megaphone and went on to say that there had been a slight change in the program, and that the race for those who had never been in a contest before would be the first number instead of the third.

“Great Scott, Chunky! That’ll mean you’ll have to hustle for all you’re worth!” cried Jerry. “Here, get your wheel out, strip off your sweater and get around to the track entrance and have your number pinned on.”

Jerry grabbed up his chum’s wheel, while Ned assisted the lad in pulling his sweater over his head. Then, cautioning Pete to keep a strict look-out, the three boys ran with Bob to the track entrance.

They were only just in time, and found a lot of other contestants ahead of them. Bob received his number, and then, for the first time, thought of his wheel.

“Just spin it for me, to see if it don’t need a drop more of oil,” Bob asked Jerry. “My hands shake so I can’t undo the tool bag.”

Obligingly Jerry spun the wheels. The rubber-tired circle went around swiftly for several turns, and then came a sudden slowing down.

“That’s funny,” remarked Bob. “I had that all adjusted this noon.”

Jerry bent down and looked at the bearings.

“The cones have been tightened,” he announced. “Why I can feel the friction,” and he moved the front wheel slowly with his hands.

“Try the back wheel!” urged Ned.

Holding that clear of the ground Jerry spun it by placing his foot on the pedal. There was a woeful squeak, and, after a few revolutions that wheel, too, slowed down. Jerry rubbed his finger over the sprocket chain. It came away black from the graphite, but mingled with the blackness were many shining specks.

Just then there came the crack of a revolver.

“That means three minutes to the start,” cried Bob. “What will I do? I can’t fix the wheel in that time!”

“Some one’s put iron filings in the graphite,” announced Jerry, rubbing the stuff between his fingers. “There’s trickery here!”

“And I’ll lose the race!” cried Bob. “I know I have a good chance of winning!”

“Let me get my wheel!” exclaimed Ned.

“It wouldn’t do any good,” interposed Jerry. “We haven’t time to run after them. Besides, the chances are our wheels are doctored too.”

“All ready, boys!” warned the starter. “Minute and a half more before the final gun!”

“I might as well quit,” cried Bob.

“Don’t you do it!” said some one suddenly at his side. “Here, you take my wheel. It’s a racer, and I’ve just oiled it.”

As he spoke a boy, of about thirteen years, who had a slight acquaintance with our three heroes, shoved a handsome new wheel over toward Bob.

“Oh, thank you, Sam Morton,” said Bob. “But don’t you want it yourself?”

“Not a bit,” said Sam. “I’m not going to race. Take the wheel.”

“All right, I will,” assented Bob. “And I’ll square things with you afterward, Sam. Some one has doctored mine. I—”

But Bob did not have time to say any more.

“Half a minute!” warned the starter.

“Get on the track!” cried Jerry.

“Line up! Do your best and win!” counseled Ned.

“I will!” shouted back Bob, and the next instant he was lined up with the others, waiting for the pistol shot that would start them off.

“Crack!”

A little puff of smoke, a sliver of flame, and a slight report. Then the whirr of rubber tires on the track sounded like the wind rushing through the trees.

The race, while it was of much interest to the contestants and their friends, was not very important to the general public. It was only a mile sprint and there were ten starters.

Bob’s heart beat wildly at first and his wheel wobbled from side to side. Then the fever of fear left him. He saw that he was not being left behind and he picked up courage. He shut his teeth tightly, took a long breath, and let out a burst of speed that carried him to within three of the leader.

There was a cheer at this, which gave him new courage, and he struggled harder and harder. Gradually he passed two of those ahead of him. There now remained but one lad between himself and the lead. He gave one quick glance.

“It’s Jack Pender,” he thought. “I know he’s been in races before. But I’m going to beat him.”

Once more Bob clenched his teeth and let out another burst of speed. But he had a good rider to contend against. Jack, looking behind and seeing the boy he hated, redoubled his efforts.

The race was half done. Already several who had no chance had dropped out. The struggle was between Bob and Jack. Bob could hear the band playing, as if it was a mile away. He drew one long breath, threw into his leg muscles another ounce of strength and then, with an effort that surprised even himself he found that he was on even terms with Jack.

“Confound you! What are you trying to do, beat me?” snapped Jack.

“That’s what I am.”

“Well, you’re not going to!”

Jack gave his wheel a sudden turn. His intention was to upset Bob. But the latter was too quick for him.

“Foul! Foul!” cried several who had seen the attempt.

The two passed the post set an eighth of a mile from the finish, neck and neck. Bob could see that Jack was almost winded. As for Bob, though in distress he still had some reserve strength.

Then, with a last final burst of speed, with a frenzied effort that sent the blood singing to his head, Bob passed his rival, and came under the tape a winner by two good lengths.

“Hurrah!” cried thousands.

“Hurrah!” cried Ned and Jerry, though Bob could not hear them.

And Bob, almost tumbling from his wheel, felt happier than he ever had in his life before. He had won the race.

He could see Jack Pender scowling at him, but he did not mind that.

“I didn’t know you were an amateur, Jack,” Bob heard one of the toady’s friends address him.

“I’m not any more,” laughed Jack. “That was my last amateur race. I’m going in with the professionals on the next race, and I’m going to win.”

“You are if we let you,” was the response.

[CHAPTER IV.]
THE THREE MILE RACE.

As soon as Ned and Jerry had congratulated Bob, which they did with glad hearts, they hurried from where they had watched him winning the race, to the place where Old Pete had been left in charge of the wheels.

“The chances are we’ll find them doctored,” said Jerry. “Only we’ll have an opportunity to fix them before our race, if they aren’t too badly tampered with.”

Bob returned the wheel he had won on to its owner, Sam Morton, and offered to share the prize with him, but Sam would not hear of it.

“I was only too glad to help you out,” he said. “You ought to make a complaint to the officers of the club about your wheel.”

“Wait until I find out who monkeyed with it,” said Bob, “and I’ll take care of him without any complaint,” and he doubled up his fist suggestively.

The three chums, Bob carrying his own disabled wheel, hurried to where Pete was. They found that worthy consuming his third cheap cigar, evidently in great enjoyment.

Jerry and Ned made a hasty examination of their bicycles, and quickly discovered something wrong with each.

“The same scoundrel that tampered with Bob’s was at ours,” said Ned. “Bearings tightened and steel filings in the graphite. Who was it, I wonder?”

“Say, Pete,” began Bob, “did any one touch our wheels while we were away?”

“Not a one, my dear son,” recited Pete with a wise air.

“Here Pete, you drop that poetry and attend to business,” said Bob, somewhat sternly. “Were you here every minute since we left?”

“I went over to get some cigars.”

“And who stayed with the wheels while you were away?”