Page:Henry Ford's Own Story.djvu/120

 streets of Detroit, in the gray chill of early morning, they raced at a speed that made the houses on either side blur into a gray haze. Coffee Jim clung breathlessly to the mechanic's seat, while Ford bent over the steering lever and gave her more power, and still more power.

"Holy Moses, she sure does run!" Coffee Jim gasped, when the car slowed down smoothly and stopped. "You'll win that race sure as shooting."

"Yes, she's a good little car," Ford said, looking it over critically. "She's a pretty good little car." He stood looking at it, his hands in his pockets.

"I've got an idea for a four-cylinder motor that will beat her, though," he said. "It's too late to build it now; we'll have to put this one in the race. But I'll make a car yet that'll beat this as much as this beats a bicycle."

It was not a boast; it was a simple statement of fact. The little racer was finished, thoroughly well done; he spent no more thought on it. Already his mind was reaching ahead, planning a better one.

It may be imagined with what anxiety the Fords awaited the day of the races. Ford was to be his own driver, and Mrs. Ford's dread of losing the race was mixed with fear for his safety if there should be an accident. She had seen the car in the tryout, and its speed terrified her, though Ford assured her, with masculine