One supposes he wasted no regrets on the situation. He had his car, the concrete form of his mechanical ideas. The time had come to test their value. If they were right he would win the race; if they were wrong he would go back to his shed and work out better ones. He examined the car again, looked to the gasoline and oil, and was ready. Coffee Jim, slapping him on the shoulder, said, "All right, Ford, go to it!" and hurried up to his seat in the grandstand, where Mrs. Ford and the boy were already sitting, tense with excitement and apprehension. Winton waved his cap in a last response to the roar from the crowd, pulled it down tight and settled back into his seat. The signal came. Ford, bending over his steering lever, threw on the power and felt the car jump forward. The race was on. It happened thirteen years ago, but there are still people in Detroit who talk of that race. They describe the start, the enthusiasm for Winton, the surprise of the crowd when the little car, driven by nobody knew whom, hung on grimly just behind the champion, to the end of the first stretch, through the second stretch, well on to the third. Winton's car shot ahead then. The crowd cheered him madly. Then the roar died down in amazement. The little car, with a burst of speed, overtook the champion, and the two cars shot past the grandstand side by side and sped into the second lap. Into the silence came a yell from Coffee Jim: "Ford! Yah, Ford! Go it, go it, go it! Ford!" The crowd went crazy. No one knew clearly what was happening. "Ford! Ford! Winton! He's ahead! Go it, go it! Winton! Come on, come on! Look at 'em! Look at 'em! Ford!" they yelled. Then the two cars swept into the final stretch abreast; the crowd, wild with excitement, hoarse, disheveled, was standing on the seats, roaring, "Come on, come on, come on! Ford! Ford!" Every detail of that race must still be distinct in Ford's mind, but he sums them all in one concise sentence: "It was SOME race. I won it." CHAPTER XIX RAISING CAPITAL Ford sat in his little car, white, shaken, dusty--the track champion of this country. He was surrounded by a small crowd of automobile enthusiasts, promoters, bicycle champions, all eager to meet and talk with the unknown man who had taken the honors away from Winton. Among them was Tom Cooper. Grasping Ford's hand, he looked with interest at the slightly built, thin-cheeked man who had won the race, and said: "Bully work, the way you handled her on that last turn. Whose car is it?" "Mine," said Ford. "I mean"--Cooper looked at the lines of the car--"I mean, whose engine did you use?" "It's my engine--I made it," Ford replied. "The deuce you did!" Cooper exclaimed. "Well, I must say you did a good job. I'd like to look it over some time." "Sure; come out to my house any time. Glad to show it to you," said Ford cordially.