Chapter 11: Gerard’s Man

The hard, glittering macadam track that swept around the huge western factory of the Mercury Automobile Company and curved off behind a mass of autumn-gray woodland, was swarming with dingy, roaring, nakedly bare cars. The spluttering explosions from the unmuffled exhausts, the voices of the testers and their mechanics as they called back and forth, the monotonous tones of the man who distributed numbers for identification and heard reports from his force, all blended into the cheery eight-o’clock din of a commencing work-day. Three brawny, perspiration-streaked young fellows were engaged in loading bags of sand on the stripped cars about to start out, to supply the weight of the missing bodies, and whistling rag-time melodies to enliven their labors.

In the shadow of one of the arched doorways Corrie Rose stood to watch the scene, drawing full, hungry breaths of the gasoline-scented, smoke-murked air. There was more than frost this December morning; ice glinted in the gutters and on the surface of buckets, the healthful lash of the wind flecked color into the men’s faces as they pulled on heavy gloves and hooded caps. The spirit of the place was action; the lusty vigor of it tugged with kindred appeal at the inactive, wistful one who looked on.

The heavy throb of the machinery-crowded building smothered the sound of steps; a touch was necessary to arouse the absorbed watcher.

“You’ve been here for almost a week, Corrie. Don’t you feel like getting to work?” queried Gerard’s pleasant tones.

The boy swung around eagerly.

“Yes,” he welcomed. “Give me something to do, anything.”

Gerard nodded, his amber eyes sweeping courtyard and track until, finding the man he sought, he lifted a summoning finger.

“Have someone bring out my six-ninety, Rupert,” he called across. “Right away.” And to his companion, “Get into some warm things; you will find it cold, driving.”

Corrie stiffened, flushing painfully and catching his lip in his white teeth.

“Gerard, you mean me to drive?”

“Of course.”

“I shall never drive a car again.”

“You will drive the six-ninety Mercury for six hours a day, every day,” Gerard corrected explicitly. “Until I get the big special racer built, and then you will drive it. You are going to work into the finest kind of training and drive until you can drive in your sleep. Too bad the winter is shutting in, but that will not stop you any more than it does the testers. In fact, driving in the snow is good practice.”

Helpless, Corrie looked at the other man, his violet-blue eyes almost black with repressed feeling.

“Gerard, you must know how I want to; don’t ask me! You know how I ache to get ahold of a wheel, but I’ve forfeited all that.”

“You have placed yourself in my factory, under my orders,” Gerard stated, with curt finality. “While you are here you will do what I tell you to do, precisely as does every other worker; precisely as does Rupert, for example, who is really tester at the eastern plant and ordinarily works under its master, David French. I have decided to give you a branch of the work that I once planned to do myself and now cannot. Go into the office and put on your driving togs.”

“I ain’t expecting to shove this ninety through a letter-slot,” remonstrated caustic accents from across the busy courtyard. “Move over, girls, you’re crowding the aisles! Say, Norris, this ain’t a joy-ride down Riverside Drive, it’s a testing run; reverse over there and take about six more sachet-bags of mud-pie aboard where your tonneau ain’t, before you start. Don’t it hurt you bad to hurry like that, you fellows?”

There was a drawing aside by the cars opposite a wide door, and the machine guided by Rupert rolled through, winding a devious course toward where its owner waited. Without a word, Corrie turned and went into the office.