Chapter 4

Mr. Ffrench and his niece were at breakfast, on the Sunday when the first account of the Georgia race reached Ffrenchwood.

“You will take fresh coffee,” Emily was saying, the little silver pot poised in her hand, when the door burst open and Dick hurried, actually hurried, into the room.

“He’s won! He’s got it!” he cried, brandishing the morning newspaper. “The first time for an American car with an American driver. And how he won it! He distanced every car on the track except the two big Italian and French machines. Those he couldn’t get, of course; but the Frenchman went out in the fourth hour with a broken valve. Then he was set down for second place—second place, Emily, with every other big car in the country entered. They say he drove like, like—I don’t know what. A hundred and some miles an hour on the straight stretches.”

“Oh,” Emily faltered, setting down the coffee-pot in her plate.

He stopped her eagerly, half turning toward Mr. Ffrench, who had put on his pince-nez to contemplate his nephew in stupefaction, not at his statement, but at his condition.

“Wait. In the last hour, the Italian car lost its chain and went over into a ditch on a back stretch, three miles from a doctor. People around picked the men out of the wreck, and Lestrange came up to find that the driver was likely to die from a severed artery before help got there. Emily, he stopped, stopped, with victory in his hands, had the Italian lifted into the mechanician’s seat, and Rupert held him in while they dashed around the course to the hospital. He got him there fifteen minutes before an ambulance could have reached him, and the man will get well. But Lestrange had lost six minutes. He had rushed straight to the doctor’s, given them the man, and gone right on, but he had lost six minutes. When people realized what he’d done, they went wild. Every one thought he’d lost the race, but they cheered him until they couldn’t shout. And he kept on driving. It’s all here,” he waved the gaudy sheet. “The paper’s full of it. He had half an hour to make up six minutes, and he did it. He came in nineteen seconds ahead of the nearest car. The crowd swarmed out on the course and fell all over him. Old Bailey’s nearly crazy.”

To see Dick excited would have been marvel enough to hold his auditors mute, if the story itself had not possessed a quality to stir even non-sporting blood. Emily could only sit and gaze at the head-lines of the extended newspaper, her dark eyes wide and shining, her soft lips apart.

“He telegraphed to Bailey,” Dick added, in the pause. “Ten words: ‘First across line in Georgia race. Car in fine shape. Lestrange.’ That was all.”

Mr. Ffrench deliberately passed his coffee-cup to Emily.

“You had better take your breakfast,” he advised. “It is unusual to see you noticing business affairs, Dick; I might say unprecedented. I am glad if Bailey’s new man is capable of his work, at least. I suppose for the rest, that he could scarcely do less than take an injured person to the hospital. Why are you putting sugar in my cup, Emily?”

“I don’t know,” she acknowledged helplessly.

“I didn’t mean to disturb any one,” said Dick, sulky and resentful. “It’ll be a big thing though for our cars, Bailey says. I didn’t know you disliked Lestrange.”

Mr. Ffrench stiffened in his chair.

“I have not sufficient interest in the man to dislike him,” was the cold rebuke. “We will change the subject.”

Emily bent her head, remedying her mistake with the coffee. She comprehended that her uncle had conceived one of his strong, silent antipathies for the young manager, and she was sorry. Sorry, although, remembering Bailey’s unfortunate speech the night Lestrange’s engagement was proposed, she was not surprised. But she looked across to Dick sympathetically. So sympathetically, that after breakfast he followed her into the library, the colored journals in his hand.

“What’s the matter with the old gentleman this morning?” he complained. “He wants the business to succeed, doesn’t he? If he does, he ought to like what Lestrange is doing for it. What’s the matter with him?”

Emily shook back her yellow curls, turning her gaze on him.

“You might guess, Dickie. He is lonely.”

“Lonely! He!”

All the feminine impulse to defend flared up.

“Why not?” she exclaimed with passion. “Who has he got? Who stands with him in his house? No wonder he can not bear the man who is hired to do what a Ffrench should be doing. It is not the racing driver he dislikes, but the manager. And do not you blame him, Dick Ffrench.”

Quite aghast, he stared after her as she turned away to the nearest window. But presently he followed her over, still holding the papers.

“Don’t you want to read about the race?” he ventured.

Smiling, though her lashes were damp, Emily accepted the peace offering.

“Yes, please.”

“You’re not angry? You know I’m a stupid chump sometimes; I don’t mean it.”

This time she laughed outright.

“No; I am sorry I was cross. It is I who would like to shirk my work. Never mind me; let us read.”

They did read, seated opposite each other in the broad window-seat and passing the sheets across as they finished them. Dick had not exaggerated, on the contrary he had not said enough. Lestrange and his car were the focus of the hour’s attention. The daring, the reckless courage that risked life for victory, the generosity which could throw that victory away to aid a comrade, and lastly the determination and skill which had won the conquest after all—the whole formed a feat too spectacular to escape public hysteria. It was very doubtful indeed whether Lestrange liked his idolizing, but there was no escape.