"Two laps more!" cried Mr. Sharp, as the starter's pistol gave this warning. "Can you get away from 'em, Tom?" The red and the green cars were following closely. The young inventor looked back and nodded. He turned on more power, almost to the limit--that he was saving for the final spurt. But after him still came the two big cars. Suddenly the red car shot ahead, just as the last lap was beginning. The green tried to follow, but there was a flash of fire, a loud report, and Tom knew a fuse had blown out. There was no time for his rival to put in a new one. The race was now between Tom and the red car. Could the lad catch and pass it? They were now only a mile from the finish. The red car was three lengths ahead. With a quick motion Tom turned on the last bit of power. There seemed to come a roar from his motor and his car shot ahead. It was on even terms with the red car when what Tom had been fearing for the last five minutes happened: his fuse blew out. "Too bad! It's all up with us!" cried Mr. Sharp. "No!" cried Tom in a ringing voice. "I've got an emergency fuse ready!" He snapped a switch in place, putting into commission another fuse. The motor that had lost speed began to pick it up again. Tom had pulled back the controller handle, but he now shoved it forward again, notch by notch, until it was at the limit. He had fallen back from the red car, and the occupants of that, with a yell of triumph, prepared to cross the line a winner. But, like a race horse that nerves himself for the last desperate spurt, Tom's machine fairly leaped ahead. With his hands gripping the rim of the steering wheel, until it seemed that the bones of his fingers would protrude, Tom sent his car straight for the finishing tape. There was a yell from the spectators. Men were standing up, waving their hats and shouting. Women were fairly screaming. Mr. Damon was blessing everything within sight. Mr. Sharp, in his excitement, was pushing on the back of the front seats as if to shove the car ahead. Then, as the pistol announced the close of the race, Tom's car, with what seemed a mighty leap, like a hunter clearing a ditch, forged ahead, and crossed the line a length in advance of the red car. Tom Swift had Won. Amid the cheers of the crowd the lad slowed up, and, at the direction of the judges, wheeled back to the stand, to receive the prize. A certified check for three thousand dollars was handed him, and he received the congratulations of the racing officials. The driver of the red car also generously praised him. "You won fair and square," he said, shaking hands with Tom. The young inventor and his friends drove their car to their shed. As Tom was descending, weary and begrimed with dust he heard a voice asking: "Mayn't I congratulate you also?" He wheeled around, to confront Mary Nestor, immaculate in a summer gown. "Why--why," he stammered. "I--I thought you didn't come."