Chapter 16: The White Road of Honor

The ruddy dawn that flushed along the edge of the east illuminated a vast, waiting multitude. For its twelve miles of twisted length, the narrow ribbon of the Cup course was walled in on either side by the massed people and uncounted hundreds of automobiles. The neighboring States, the great cities of New York and Jersey, the countrysides far and near had emptied their motor-car enthusiasts and sport lovers into this strip of Long Island, for to-day. Laughing, eating picnic breakfasts, laying wagers and preparing score-cards, the crowd swayed tiptoe on the keen edge of expectancy; while up and down the course drove and pushed the hurrying hundreds who had not yet found satisfactory place.

As the dawn brightened into full, golden October day, the crush became greater, the haste and anticipation more intense. When a spluttering roar announced one of the arriving racers, the press would open, cheering, to leave his car passage and close in behind him with boisterous comment and criticism.

“That was the six Atlanta, Louis driving, wasn’t it, Dick?”

“Rub your eyes, you’re asleep yet—that was the Mercury, Rose up. Can’t you tell a peach from a lemon? Quit shoving, there!”

“Bet you ten a foreign car wins.”

“Take you. It’ll be the Bluette or the Mercury. Get back, here comes another. They start in twenty minutes.”

Opposite the grand-stand the excitement was greatest, but most orderly. Around the row of repair pits men ran in and out, hovering about their cars with solicitous final attentions and eager encouragement to the smiling drivers. The first machine was already at the starting-line, ready as an arrow on the cord, its pilot smoking a cigarette and chatting indolently with the official starter.

“I drew second for you, last night,” Gerard reminded his driver, leaning against the Mercury to look up at him. “Of course, you have your numbers on. You will have to get into line in a moment; don’t you want to get out and move about, first? You are going to have six or seven hours’ grind.”

“I’m rested best right here,” responded Corrie placidly. He nestled himself more snugly into his seat and proceeded to fasten on the mask and hood that quenched his blond youth into kinship of blank identity with every other driver on the course. “The crowd is pretty thick; I hope they get the people off.”

“The police are clearing the way, now. Corrie——”

The thunderous voice of the car from the next camp interrupted speech as it went past them.

“Good luck, Rosie! I’ll leave your rear wheels alone,” shouted its driver. “By-by, Allan.”

“If he’s worried bad about his, I’ll lend him a safety-pin from my shirtwaist,” drawled Rupert, lounging up, hooking his own mask. “I ain’t muck-raking, but he broke his rear axle at Indianapolis, last month, and lost two wheels.”

“Corrie,” Gerard pursued, “you are to bring yourself back safely. I do not want any victories at the price of your wreck. Remember that I am responsible for your being at this work, and remember Flavia.”

“If I wreck my car there won’t be any victory,” Corrie practically returned. “Besides, I have got Rupert with me to be looked after; if I were making a speed dash by myself I might take a chance or two. You never let me out alone. It’s all right. They are signalling.”

Rupert sprang into his seat like a rubber ball, bracing one small legging-clad foot for support; not the least of a racing mechanician’s arts being that of clinging at all times to his reeling post of duty. Gerard held out his hand for Corrie’s parting clasp, then exchanged a warm grip with Rupert. Between the driver and mechanician who were to play the perilous game side by side, there passed no such friendly touch. Gerard never looked at the watching violet-blue eyes of the third man during that farewell ceremony.

“Take care of yourselves,” he bade.

“It’s a nice morning for a ramble,” observed Rupert. “Don’t worry, love, we’ll be in to tea.”

The Mercury Titan rolled into place in the line of flaming, panting machines. The driver of the first car threw away his cigarette and sat up. There was a pause while the group of officials poised, watches in hand, the people rose, then the starter leaned forward and the first car sprang from the line.

Amid the gay tumult of music and cheers, Corrie waited the half-minute interval, his eyes on the counting official, his hand on the lever, until the starter’s hearty clap fell on his shoulder with the word:

“Go!”

With an explosive roar the Mercury shot across the line and rushed, gathering speed in long leaps, down the white course. Under the first arched bridge, out of sight it flashed, followed by an answering roar from the countless throats of those between whose dense ranks it sped.

Gerard moved back a few paces. He had become rather pale and grave; his gaze remained fixed on the distant arch through which the Mercury had vanished, nor did he turn to watch the sending away of the other nineteen racers.

The touch laid on his sleeve was feather-light.

“I could not stay away,” pleaded Flavia, beside him. “May I watch Corrie with you, Allan?”

He wheeled eagerly, catching her retreating hand before it escaped from his arm.

“I know why Corrie calls you ‘Other Fellow,’” he welcomed. “It is because you always know the right thing to do.”

They looked at each other in the morning brightness, revelling in the fresh wonder of mutual possession.

“This is hurting you,” she grieved. “I saw you before you did me, when the cars started—you were thinking that last year you yourself would have been there.”

He checked her with the warm brilliance of his smile.

“Not of myself,” he denied. “If there was anything to regret, do you think I could remember it since I have you? No, I was thinking that Corrie is barely twenty, that I had trained him and sent him out there in that machine in defiance of his father’s wish—in fact, I believe I had an attack of remorseful panic.”

“You did it for Corrie,” she gave swift comfort. “Can you suppose that papa and I do not understand that? You could have found drivers already skilled, for your car; instead you troubled to take him and make him what he is now. He is so different from the desperate boy we left, Allan. Whatever happens out there to-day, you have done the best for Corrie.”

The feverish activity of the camps was swirling around them. Gerard gently drew the young girl to the place where his private roadster waited, somewhat aside from the centre of action, and put her in the scarlet-cushioned seat. After her paced Corrie’s dog and took its place beside her in stately guardianship.

“You can see everything here, and it is not so rough for you,” he explained. “Flavia, a year ago I bought this, when I bought the yellow roses on the night before my last drive. Will you let me take off your little glove and put it on your finger, now?”

Her lashes sparkling wet, Flavia bent to him, and in the face of crowds and camps Gerard set his ring on her hand.

Men were leaning over railings, holding ready watches open. At the repair pit next but one to the Mercury’s, the mechanics and men in charge had drawn together in whispering groups.

“Car coming!” the word passed suddenly from lip to lip.

On the summit of the white hill a mile distant, a red signal flag went up. A dark shape darted up over the rise, glanced with incredible swiftness down the incline, disappearing momentarily behind the packed angle, then again shot into view and sped past the grand-stand like a humming projectile; the driver a fixed statue of concentration on the road before him, the mechanician half-turned in his seat to watch for cars behind.

The place burst into uproar.

“Number two! Number two first!”

“Mercury leads!”

Horns were blown, handkerchiefs waved, the applause breaking out anew as a second car rushed past in hot pursuit of the flying Mercury.

“Three! Number three!”

“Oh you Bluette!”

“Here comes another—get back!”

Flavia stooped from her seat.

“Allan, that was Corrie—where is the car that started before him?”

“Tire trouble, perhaps. You are trembling, dear! Let my chauffeur take you home and wait quietly there until I bring Corrie to you after the race.”

She shook her head.

“No, please no. Here I can see him each lap and know he is safe so far. Let me stay.”

Two cars thundered past, struggling desperately for place. The noise of the excited people overwhelmed all conversation and left the two lovers silent. From time to time a telephone bell jingled across the tumult, blue-uniformed messengers hurried here and there. But when the last of twenty cars had passed, the twenty-first not appearing, there fell a lull and men settled back to wait for the second lap.

Five minutes passed, ten. The red flags went up again; two speeding shapes topped the rise and plunged out of sight.

“Two and three!”

“The Bluette—no—Mercury leads still!”

Excitement flared high as the two racers reappeared. But as they swept down the straight stretch, the mechanician of the Mercury raised his arms above his head in warning, the car slackened speed and drew to the side of the course. As the Bluette machine fled past him, Corrie brought his car to a halt opposite the judges’ stand, leaning toward the official who sprang to his side.

“The America’s off the second bridge—send the ambulance to the road below,” he called, his ringing voice penetrating bell-clear through the heavier sounds.

Before his grim message was fairly comprehended, he had slammed into a gear and was off to regain the sacrificed moment.