Chapter 8

Six o’clock was the hour set for the start of the Beach race. And it was just seventeen minutes past five when Dick Ffrench, hanging in a frenzy of anxiety over the paddock fence circling the inside of the mile oval, uttered something resembling a howl and rushed to the gate to signal his recreant driver. From the opposite side of the track Lestrange waved gay return, making his way through the officials and friends who pressed around him to shake hands or slap his shoulder caressingly, jesting and questioning, calling directions and advice. A brass band played noisily in the grand-stand, where the crowd heaved and surged; the racing machines were roaring in their camps.

“What’s the matter? Where were you?” cried Dick, when at last Lestrange crossed the course to the central field. “The cars are going out now for the preliminary run. Rupert’s nearly crazy, snarling at everybody, and the other man has been getting ready to start instead of you.”

“Well, he can get unready,” smiled Lestrange. “Keep cool, Ffrench; I’ve got half an hour and I could start now. I’m ready.”

He was ready; clad in the close-fitting khaki costume whose immaculate daintiness gave no hint of the certainty that before the first six hours ended it would be a wreck of yellow dust and oil. As he paused in running an appraising glance down the street-like row of tents, the white-clothed driver of a spotless white car shot out on his way to the track, but halted opposite the latest arrival to stretch down a cordial hand.

“I hoped a trolley-car had bitten you,” he shouted. “The rest of us would have more show if you got lost on the way, Darling.”

The boyish driver at the next tent looked up as they passed, and came over grinning to give his clasp.

“Get a move on; what you been doin’ all day, dear child? They’ve been givin’ your manager sal volatile to hold him still.” He nodded at the agitated Dick in ironic commiseration.

“Go get out your car, Darling; I want to beat you,” chaffed the next in line.

“‘Strike up the band, here comes a driver,’” sang another, with an entrancing French accent.

Laughing, retorting, shaking hands with each comrade rival, Lestrange went down the row to his own tent. At his approach a swarm of mechanics from the factory stood back from the long, low, gray car, the driver who was to relieve him during the night and day ordeal slipped down from the seat and unmasked.

“He’s here,” announced Dick superfluously. “Rupert—where’s Rupert? Don’t tell me he’s gone now! Lestrange—”

But Rupert was already emerging from the tent with Lestrange’s gauntlets and cap, his expression a study in the sardonic.

“It hurts me fierce to think how you must have hurried,” he observed. “Did you walk both ways, or only all three? I’m no Eve, but I’d give a snake an apple to know where you’ve been all day.”

“Would you?” queried Lestrange provokingly, clasping the goggles before his eyes. “Well, I’ve spent the last two hours on the Coney Island beach, about three squares from here, watching the kiddies play in the sand. I didn’t feel like driving just then. It was mighty soothing, too.”

Rupert stared at him, a dry unwilling smile slowly crinkling his dark face.

“Maybe, Darling,” he drawled, and turned to make his own preparations.

Fascinated and useless, Dick looked on at the methodical flurry of the next few moments; until Lestrange was in his seat and Rupert swung in beside him. Then a gesture summoned him to the side of the machine.

“I’ll run in again before we race, of course,” said Lestrange to him, above the deafening noise of the motor. “Be around here; I want to see you.”