"Can't you turn on a little more gasoline?" asked Mollie.
"I think I can—now," spoke Betty. "I wanted to give it gradually."
She opened the trottle a little more, and advanced the spark slightly. The result was at once apparent. The Gem shot ahead, and the girls in the leading boat looked back nervously.
"One of them is that pretty girl Will danced with so often at the ball," said Mollie, as she got a glimpse of the rival's face.
"Yes, and the other is her cousin, or something," spoke Betty. "I was introduced to her. It's mean, perhaps, to beat you, girls," she whispered. "But I'm going to do it."
The chugging of many motors—the churning to foam of the blue waters of the lake—a haze of acrid smoke hanging over all, as some cylinder did not properly digest the gasoline vapor and oil fed to it, but sent it out half consumed—spray thrown up now and then the distant sound of a band—eager eyes looking toward the stake buoys—tense breathing—all this went to make up the race in which our outdoor girls were taking part.
Foot by foot the Gem crept up on the Bug, which was the name of the foremost boat. Drop by drop Betty fed more gasoline to her striving
