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?”

“Friend of mine. Bill Berry, fat as a cherry,” replied Pete, unable to resist the temptation