hen the three leading wheels whirled past the grand stand so nearly
abreast that no advantage could be claimed for either one.

Now the cheering was tremendous; but the names of Rod Blake and Billy
Bliss were tossed from mouth to mouth equally with that of Snyder Appleby.
At the end of nine laps the champion of two years had fallen hopelessly
behind. His face wore a distressed look, and his breath came in painful
gasps. Cigarettes had done their work with him, and his wind was gone. The
two leaders were still abreast; but Rod had obtained the inside position,
and if he could keep up the pace the race was his.

Eltje Vanderveer's face was pale, and her hands were clinched with the
intense excitement of the moment. Was her champion to win after all? Was
her bit of blue ribbon to be borne triumphantly to the front? Inch by inch
it creeps into a lead. Now they are coming down the home stretch. The
speed of that last spurt is wonderful. Nothing like it has ever been seen
at the wind-up of a five-mile race on the Euston track. Looking at them,
head on, it is for a few seconds hard to tell which is leading. Then a
solitary shout for Rod Blake is heard. In another moment it has swelled
into a perfect roar of cheering, and there is a tempest of tossing hats,
handkerchiefs, and parasols.

[Illustration: ROD BLAKE WINS BY A LENGTH.--(_Page 15._)]

Rod Blake has won by a length, Billy Bliss is second, Snyder Appleby was
such a bad third that he has gone to the dressing-room without finishing,
and the others are nowhere.

The speed of the winning wheels cannot be checked at once, and as they go
shooting on past the stand, the exhausted riders are seen to reel in their
saddles. They would have fallen but for the willing hands outstretched to
receive them. Dan is the first to reach the side of his adored young
master, and as the boy drops into his arms, the faithful fellow says:

"You've won it, Mister Rod! You've won it fair and square; but you want to
look out for Mister Snyder. I heerd him a-saying bad things about you when
he passed me on that last lap, and I'm afeard he means some kind of
mischief."

CHAPTER III.

A CRUEL ACCUSATION.

The attention of the spectators, including the club members, was so
entirely given to the finish of the famous race for the Railroad Cup,
that, for a few minutes Snyder Appleby was the sole occupant of the
dressing-room. When a group of the fellows, forming a sort of triumphal
esco