The rival bicyclists

For the moment every one at the track thought Joe had been killed or fatally injured.

The bomb, or whatever it was, had gone off directly beside him.

A shower of dirt flew in every direction, and this, mingling with the smoke, hid our hero from view.

A cry of terror was followed by absolute silence. Every one looked dazed.

Then, from the midst of what was meant to injure him badly, Joe rode unharmed.

No, not entirely unharmed, for his clothing was torn and his left hand was bleeding.

But such trifles counted for nothing in view of what he had gone through.

“He’s out of it!”

“I thought he would be blown to pieces!”

“Who threw that thing on the track?”

“The miscreant ought to be lynched.”

Joe heard very few of the cries. Out of the awful situation he came with still but one purpose in his mind. He must win that race.

It is such grit that marks the truly successful boy and man.

Barnstable was fifty feet ahead, and they had just started on the last lap.

Joe bent over his handle bar and spurted as he had never spurted before.

The track seemed to fairly flash by under his feet. A hundred shouts rang in his ears.

“He’s crawling up on Barnstable!”

“Just see him spurt!”

“He was fooling at the start.”

“No, he wasn’t fooling, he was only saving his wind, and now he is going to show you what he can do.”

The last speaker was Dick Burns, and he told the truth.

Like a dart from a blowgun Joe came down the homestretch.

Barnstable was but ten yards ahead—now eight—now five—now only three!

Now they were side by side!

And the tape but six yards off.

“Beat him out, Barnstable!”

“Go, Joe, go!” yelled Dick.

Barnstable increased his speed—he was pedaling the race of his life.

But Joe also increased. Then our hero fairly stood on his pedals and on he went, over the line, a winner by a yard!

A silence—then a mighty shout that echoed and re-echoed on all sides.

“The boy has won!”

“Who is he?”

“Joe Johnson, of Lockport.”

“He’ll be a champion some day.”

“So he will.”

Eagerly the crowd surrounded Joe, anxious to make his acquaintance.

But Dick got there first, and it was Dick who hurried Joe off to his dressing-room.

“I knew you could do it, old man,” said Dick. “I am proud of you. Won’t this tickle Wilbur Rand when he hears of it!”

“I couldn’t have done it on the old wheel, Dick. The new machine won that race.”

“Nonsense! It was your endurance and pluck, Joe. Here, let me rub you down. The two hundred dollars are yours.”

Joe’s eyes glistened in spite of his exhaustion.

“Won’t father be pleased,” he murmured.

“It will help him out on that mortgage.”

“Exactly. When do I get my prize?”

“The money will be presented this evening at the clubhouse at eight o’clock.”

Then the two boys talked about the bomb.

“It was Lemuel Akers threw it on the track, I am certain of it,” said Joe.

“It’s just like him. So this is where he is holding out. We’ll have to report that fact at home.”

“I fancy it won’t do much good. He’ll keep out of the way for awhile.”

As soon as he was in condition Joe went outside again. Many were introduced to him, and soon he was a hail-fellow-well-met among the bicyclists.

The track authorities had set two special detectives at work on the bomb business, and they promised to find Lemuel Akers, if such a thing was possible.

Joe and Dick took supper with their new friends at the clubhouse. It was an elegant layout, and it is needless to say that our hero did full justice to what was set before him.

Then came a few speeches, and finally Joe was presented with a purse containing two hundred dollars in gold.

He thanked the club for the prize, making a speech that drew forth considerable applause, and half an hour later he and Dick withdrew in order to catch the last train that night back to Lockport.

“I must stop at a house on one of these side streets for a minute,” said Dick. “You go down to the depot and wait for me will you?”

“All right,” responded Joe.

Dick turned a corner and Joe went on his way. It was rather dark, as there was no moon.

The main street was torn up for a new sewer, so Joe took the back way to reach the railroad station. Unknown to him two men were close behind.

“He’s got that two hundred in his breast pocket,” said one man to the other. “I saw him place it there.”

“We must get it, Cuddy.”

“Of course. Two hundred can’t be picked up easier.”

So speaking the men followed Joe until a dark corner was reached.

Then one of them ran up and stopped Joe.

“Hold on, sonny.”

“What do you want?” demanded our hero sharply.

“I want that two hundred you have in your breast pocket.”

“What!”

“No nonsense now!” put in the second man. “Fork over and be quick about it!”

As he spoke the man drew a pistol.

Joe took in the situation on the instant.

These men were footpads. They had seen him put the money away and now they meant to rob him.

As quick as a flash he sprang back. Then on his machine hopped Joe, and pedaling off toward the depot. He had gone but a dozen yards when the man said:

“Stop! or I’ll fire!”

To this command and threat Joe paid no heed. He spun on, and a few seconds later reached the depot in safety.

He at once sought a policeman and told his story. The two went back, but the footpads had taken warning and cleared out.

“Next time I’ll be more careful how I show my money,” thought Joe.

It was not long after this that Dick came along. The train also arrived, and both boys got aboard.

“Well, Joe, you are a professional rider from to-day,” said Dick. “Your amateur days are over.”

Joe and Dick talked over future prospects all the way to Lockport.

It was very late when they arrived at their native town and they expected to see the station practically deserted.

What was their surprise to find it lit up on all sides with Chinese lanterns, while in the square a big bonfire was blazing.

“Hurrah for Joe Johnson!” sang out a hundred boys as our hero alighted.

The news of his victory had preceded him and the town boys were proud of him.

They had a little parade, some riding on their wheels and others marching on foot, and they escorted Joe home.

Here Mr. Johnson and Joe’s mother and Paul could scarcely credit their ears.

“Won two hundred dollars!” gasped his mother. “Oh, Joe!”

“Yes, mother,” he said proudly. And then he turned to his father: “Use it toward that note, father.”

And he held out the purse.

Mr. Johnson gladly accepted a hundred and fifty dollars, which, with the hundred he had, would pay off the two hundred and fifty.

“Keep the rest, Joe,” he said. “You more than deserve it.”

“So he does,” put in Paul. “Ain’t I glad though, Joe,” he added warmly.

“But you are out of work—” began Joe.

“No, I am happy to say that I have struck another situation,” replied Mr. Johnson.

“That’s good. Where?”

“With Mr. Fordham, at the planing mill.”

“Why, Mr. Akers worked there.”

“I know it. He was discharged last week for carelessness. He broke several very valuable planing knives.”

“The Akerses won’t like that,” said Joe soberly.

“I presume not. But the position was vacant and I can’t afford to remain idle on their account, Joe.”

“Certainly not, father,” replied Joe; and there the conversation dropped.

But Joe could not help but wonder what effect the turn of affairs would have on Lemuel Akers and his family.

He fancied, and rightly, too, that they would be very bitter over this unexpected change.