But Bartlett skillfully brought the Spanish Omelet back on the road
again, and swung up alongside his rival for the home stretch-the broad
highway that ran in front of the clubhouse.

The players who were soon to start out on the links; the guests, the
gallery, and the servants gathered to see the finish of the impromptu
race, murmurs arising as it was seen how close it was likely to be.
And close it was, for when the two machines, with doleful whinings of
brakes, came to a stop in front of the house, the front wheels were in
such perfect alignment that there was scarcely an inch of difference.

"A dead heat !" exclaimed Bartlett, as he leaped out and motioned for
one of the servants to take the car around to the garage.

"Yes, you win !" agreed Captain Poland, as he pushed his goggles back
on his cap. He held out a bill.

"What's it for?" asked Bartlett, drawing back.

"Why, I put up a ten spot that I'd beat you. I didn't, and you win."

"Buy drinks with your money!" laughed Bartlett. "The race was to be for
a finish, not a dead heat. We'll try it again, sometime."

"All right-any time you like!" said the captain crisply, as he sat down
at a table after greeting some friends. "But you won't refuse to split
a quart with me?"

"No. My throat is as dusty as a vacuum cleaner. Have any of the