" guessed some; "St. Clare," said others; "Wolverton,"
asserted several enthusiasts.

But before the big racer had traveled half of the course the hum of its
engines ceased and the black speck gradually came to a halt. Wolverton
it proved to be and his car had developed engine trouble. The Stafford
car was out of the race.

St. Clare and Du Blon followed in quick cession, each of them driving
their madly flying vehicles to the limit of endurance, but each fell
behind Osterhout's mark by several seconds. McCalkin, the ruddy-faced
Irish driver, was the next sensation. His was the smallest car of the
race in point of length. Indeed, it looked as if it had collided with a
telegraph pole and lost most of its hood. But under that snub nose were
concealed six perfectly good cylinders that spat fire all the way down
the course and shot the car over the finish line two seconds better than
the world's record. What a roar of applause greeted the boyish driver
when the figures were displayed! Even the scouts forgot for a moment
that they were rooting exclusively for Dan Dacy and burst forth in a
ringing cheer.

But presently their attention was diverted from this achievement, for
word was passed from the judges' stand that Dan Dacy with his Vix-Benson
was the next contestant.

"Dan Dacy next!" was the word that passed from mouth to mouth through the
crowd. Every one was a-tip-toe with excitement. All eyes were strained
on the starting line.

"Gee, I hope he comes through with a new record," said Bruce anxiously.

"He will," asserted Jiminy Gordon positively.

Boom! Five thousand pairs of eyes were fastened on the tiny black speck
that detached itself from the black blot far down the beach, and sped
northward. Ten thousand ears were strained to catch the first far-off
hum of the motor Dacy was coming. His Vix-Benson was burning up the
beach. Now the scouts caught the buzz of the motor. It grew louder with
the passing of every second. Like a black projectile the car came on,
flames from the throbbing cylinders licking about the hood.

"Dacy! Dacy! Danny Dacy! Make it a new record!" screamed the
electrified crowd while he was yet two miles from the finish line.
Unquestionably he was the favorite.

On came the roaring racer. The car was just a gray blur that hardly
seemed to touch the beach, and begoggled Dan Dacy looked like the hooded
messenger of death.

Then with an ear-splitting roar the great mach