Part 30

There was a general movement of greeting as the Mercury rolled in and Gerard sprang out at his own camp.

"Where's your pink pet, Allan?" called a driver, from the starting line. "What's up--mornin' air too crude for millionaire kids?"

"He isn't up," was the blithe reply. "Never mind Rose, he's coming; tell me where you got your five-cylinder machine, Jack."

"A late Rose, eh? Oh, I've got six cylinders here, all right, but I daren't run on all of them now for fear my speed would make the rest of you quit, discouraged. I'm goin' to make your yesterday's record look like a last year's timetable, this mornin'."

"You look out that you don't break your neck. Rupert says it's a hoodoo day. We don't want you in the hospital twice this season."

"Is Rupert sad?" questioned the big blonde pilot of the neighboring camp, leaning over the railing.

"I ain't been so near it since I put my foot in a hole and sprained my ankle ten minutes before the start, when I was racing with Darling French at Philadelphia," admitted the mechanician. "It hurt me fierce."

"Your ankle?"

"No, seeing him start without me."

"Say, Gerard, there's your pink Rambler," a distant voice signified.

About to send his car forward, Gerard paused to glance over his shoulder, and caught the pink flash behind a row of mist-draped trees edging the cross-road. Sudden mischief curved his lips, his amber eyes laughed behind their goggles.

"Tell Corrie Rose I'll give him that game of auto tag, if he happens along while I'm on a straight stretch," he called across to one of Corrie's men, by way of farewell.

A little breeze stirred the mist, as the Mercury shot down the course; the gray light was brightening by slow gradations.

There was small probability that Gerard's car and the rose-colored machine would soon find themselves together on the twelve-mile circuit, allowing for their difference in starting time. But as the Mercury turned into the straight stretch of back road, on the second time around, there sounded a sharp report, the car staggered perilously, and a tire tore itself loose from a rear wheel to hurtle, a vicious projectile of rubber and steel, far across the stubble fields. Reeling, but held to its course by the driver's trained hand, the Mercury slackened its flight and was brought to a stop. Rupert was already leaning over the back, dragging free a spare tire; Gerard slipped out of his seat.

For experts the task was not long. A white car thundered past the workers, leaving a swirl of dust and flying pebbles, its mechanician turning to survey the halted Mercury. As Rupert swept the last tool into its place with precise swiftness, the throbbing of a second motor drifted to them, a pink streak darted around a distant curve.

"It's Corrie," identified Gerard. "Get in, Rupert. If he wasn't forced by his money into the amateur ranks, that boy would make some of us work to keep our laurels, all right."

The panther-agile figure swung into place beside him.

"I ain't a market gardener," Rupert drawled, fitting one small foot in a strap support, as the car leaped forward. "But I guess those plants ain't apt to flourish in too rich soil."

The Mercury did not gather speed too rapidly, rather it lingered until the pink car bore close down upon it.

"How near?" suddenly demanded Gerard, above the noise of the motor.

The mechanician reconnoitred.

"Hundred feet," he made report.

"Wave to him."

Rupert raised his hand obediently. The Mercury sprang ahead under Gerard's touch, and with an answering roar the rose-colored machine sped in pursuit.

There was no doubt that Corrie understood the play; nor that his car was easily capable of passing the sixty-mile an hour gait now held by the Mercury. But he was not allowed to pass. Each time he essayed it, the other racer swerved in front and cut off the road.

It was as dangerous a game as could well be designed, had either driver been less skilled, but it was safe enough now. Gerard was laughing as he drove, when the first tiny missile rattled against his car.

"He's pitching spare bolts," shouted Rupert, at his companion's ear, himself grimly amused. "Peevish, ain't he?"

Gerard nodded, and crossed the narrow road with an unexpected turn that drew a baffled explosion from the checked car behind. A brass nut smacked the Mercury's gasoline tank. It was not difficult to imagine Corrie's excited tempest of defeat, to those who knew him.