Mrs. Hartford laughed, and for a moment she seemed, even to _The Black Tiger

THE BLACK TIGER

By PATRICK O'CONNOR

IVES WASHBURN, INC.

NEW YORK

this book, or parts thereof, in any form, except

for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

_Dedicated_

to Bill and Steve Dredge and the

happy fraternity of sports-car racing

drivers in the United States of America.

Also to their hero mechanics.

_Also by Patrick O'Connor_

THE SOCIETY OF FOXES

FLIGHT OF THE PEACOCK

THE WATERMELON MYSTERY

THE BLACK TIGER

Woody Hartford, seated upon a four-legged stool of uncertain design,

examined the pieces of a carburetor that lay on a bench before him, and

contemplated a problem of the nicest delicacy.

The problem had nothing to do with the carburetor. Woody at seventeen

could put that back together without even thinking of what he was

doing. He'd cleaned and adjusted a score of them since he first started

working at McNess Union Service Station, Hermosa Beach, California,

two years ago. The problem concerned the matter of whether to spend

ten dollars on Cindy Lou or on Mary Jane. It was not one that could be

lightly decided.

There were, Woody was dimly aware, certain ethical factors involved.

Cindy Lou needed the money spent on her in the worst way. On the other

hand, if Mary Jane ever found out about it, she would, in a ladylike

manner, raise a great deal of trouble.

Again, if, to avoid strained relations with Mary Jane, Woody spent the

money on her, it would be a long time before he would have a ten spot

to spend on Cindy Lou.

"A guy with a hot rod and thirty bucks a week," Woody said to the float

chamber of the carburetor, "has no right having a girl friend, too.

On the other hand," he added, "a guy with a hot rod is going to wind

up with a girl friend whether he wants one or not. There's no arguing

about that."

He sighed, reached for one of a number of remarkably dirty rags on the

workbench, and thrust it into the float chamber of the carburetor. He'd

have used a clean rag if one was available. Clean rags were delivered

every Monday to the McNess Union Service Station, but Mondays were

Woody's days off. When he arrived for work on Tuesday the rags were all

uniformly dirty. This was one of the minor oddities about the service

station that Woody had long ago ceased to trouble himself over.

Cindy Lou was Woody's hot rod. Or to be more precise, she was Woody's

1940 Ford coup√©, which he was converting into a hot rod with the hope

one day of competing in drag races. He'd already milled her head,

worked over the chassis, changed the gear ratio, and moved the engine

so that it was no longer in front of the driver's seat. Instead it was

alongside the driver, and separated from the driver by a makeshift

firewall. All that was needed now was to buy a four-carburetor manifold

and Woody figured that Cindy Lou would hit a hundred miles an hour in

a quarter mile from a standing start. A hundred miles an hour wasn't

championship speed or anything like it. Some of the boys were getting a

hundred and thirty out of their mills. But it would be good for Cindy

Lou, and with more expansive engine modifications, it could be improved

even further.

But the final payment on the carburetor rig, secondhand, would cost ten

bucks. And Mary Jane was expecting to be taken out that night with the

same ten bucks.

"Maybe," said Woody hopefully, still cleaning the float chamber, "I

could give the guy five on the manifold and squeak by with Mary Jane

on the other five." But he knew even as he said it that the compromise

wouldn't work. Bob Peters, who had the manifold, wanted cash and spoke

darkly of several other offers. And Mary Jane wasn't the kind of girl

you could take to the corner drugstore for a lemon coke, then to the

movies, and call it an evening.

Every now and then Mary Jane got it into her head that she wanted

to go out in style. And Woody knew he'd better take her. She went

through phases of being very sophisticated and looked upon drugstore

entertainment as kid stuff. During her sophisticated intervals, she

read books by Aldous Huxley and talked about the social obligations of

the upper strata.

At such times, and this was one of them, Mary Jane didn't want to hear

a word about Cindy Lou, in which she was normally interested. And the

mention of carburetors and manifolds left her slightly hostile.

The telephone rang, interrupting Woody's reflections. He wiped his

hands briefly on his khaki pants, got down off the stool, and went over

to the phone, which was fastened to a wall of the garage.

"McNess Union Service Station," he said into the mouthpiece.

"Hi," said a cheerful voice at the other end. "That you, Woody?"

"Yep."

"How are things?"

Things, Woody replied, rubbing the end of his nose with an

oil-blackened hand, were pretty good. He knew what was coming. Bob was

on the line and after a little more palaver would want to know whether

he was going to hand over the final payment on the manifold. Bob was

never one to get right to the point. He was studying salesmanship and

had read somewhere that most big sales were made in the course of

friendly discussions with clients about their own problems and affairs.

So Bob asked Woody whether he felt good and whether his dad was in

good health and had he gone to the dry lakes racecourse last weekend

and what he thought of the weather. Woody replied noncommittally to

all these inquiries while he weighed Cindy Lou in the balance against

Mary Jane. Finally Bob decided that he'd done enough of the friendly

discussion part of salesmanship and should get down to the point.

"Say, Woody," he said, "I don't want you to get the idea that I'm

rushing you. But I've had a couple of offers for that manifold, and I

was wondering whether you could give me the last payment and pick it up

today. I'd like to have you have it rather than these other guys, but I

need the dough today."

"Wouldn't settle for five now and five next payday, would you?" asked

Woody.

"No," said Bob. "I'd like to oblige a pal. But I've got a real hot deal

on myself, and I've got to have the skins."

"O.K.," said Woody. "I'll pay it off."

"Swell," said Bob. "You going to be there this evening?"

"Until seven," Woody replied.

"I'll buzz by with the plumbing and pick up the dough about six-thirty.

S'long."

"S'long," said Woody and put down the receiver.

Only when he had hung up did he realize the enormity of his offense.

Without consulting her, he had in one second rejected Mary Jane for

Cindy Lou. And Mary Jane was definitely expecting to be taken out that

night. When he'd paid for the manifold, he would have exactly one

dollar and fifteen cents left. That was not sufficient for even a

lemon-coke-and-movie evening.

Furthermore there wasn't any hope of raising a loan this late in the

day. Woody's father, who would be good for a loan after a slight

lecture, was out of town. His mother, he knew, had only three or four

dollars of housekeeping money around and probably needed that. And Worm

McNess, proprietor of the McNess Union Service Station and Woody's

boss, was as tight as a tappet. His idea of a loan was fifty cents, and

Woody needed at least seven or eight dollars.

Worm McNess came by his nickname fairly enough. His full name was

William Orville Randolph McNess, the initials spelling "Worm." But

beyond that he was long and thin, rather as if a piece of spaghetti

had been brought to man size and given human features and limbs. And

over and above all, this Worm could wiggle and twist around a car in

positions next to impossible for mechanics built on more normal lines.

Woody liked Worm. He was a good boss with a quiet sense of humor and

an inexhaustible knowledge of the insides of automobiles. Woody could

never make up his mind whether Worm really liked cars or not. He seemed

to view them all with a certain contempt. "Bucket" was his terse term

for any automobile brought into the service station for repair--though

it was a term he did not use in the presence of the owner. Cadillacs,

Thunderbirds, or Chevvies--all were buckets to Worm. Yet he worked on

them with the greatest care, and when he was through, had always done

an expert job. It was hard for Woody to understand why he viewed all

automobiles with such contempt and yet worked on them with such care.

Worm was putting the pan back on a Chevvy now--the same car whose

carburetor Woody was busy cleaning. He rolled out from underneath,

got to his feet somewhat unsteadily, and hunched his thin shoulders

forward. This done, he reached gingerly with two long greasy fingers

into the breast pocket of his shirt and took out a cigarette.

"Hurry oop wi' yon carburetor and let's get this bucket o' bolts oot of

here," he said. His accent, after fifteen years in America, was still

straight from Aberdeen, Scotland.

Woody by now had the carburetor back together again and got busy

installing it. All the time he kept wondering whether he ought to

call Bob Peters and tell him he found he hadn't the dough and the

manifold deal was off. Or whether he ought to call Mary Jane and tell

her something had come up and he couldn't take her out that night. Or

whether, just on the chance that this was a day for miracles, he ought

to ask Worm for a loan of six or seven bucks.

He decided, since Worm was close at hand and relaxing with his

cigarette, that he'd try him first.

"Say, Worm," he said in as offhand a manner as he could manage, "how

about letting me have a couple of bucks until payday?"

"Bucket o' bolts," he said ignoring the question completely and shaking

his head more in sorrow than in anger over the Chevvy. "Mon, they ought

to take the poor beastie and gie her a decent Christian burial. She's

eighty thousand miles on her if she's been driven a yard."

Woody was used to these tactics and knew what to do about them. He

said nothing for a minute or two while he connected the gas line to the

carburetor. Then he said, "How about letting me have a couple of bucks

until payday, Worm?"

"It's a wonder her wheels aren't square," said Worm, concentrating with

great determination on the car. "I tell you, laddie, there's no one but

McNess could have got her running again."

"You could take it all out of the first pay check," Woody persisted.

"Her cylinders have been bored so many times, her pistons will be

slapping aroond in water before long."

"Worm, I just got to have the dough."

"Hoot, laddie. What's all your concern aboot money? Ye'll only be

spending it. When I served my apprenticeship in Aberdeen, I worked five

years without getting a nickel."

Woody sighed. "O.K.," he said. "Forget it."

So easy a victory disturbed Worm. He felt that he had been perhaps

something less than generous. He was sensitive about being considered

tight with money (undoubtedly because this was the truth) and would

tell anyone who was prepared to listen that the Highland Scots are the

most generous people in the world. He was a Highland Scot.

"Ah weel," he said, "I recall as a laddie that it was hard to be

walking around without a groat to comfort me fist with. How much do ye

want?"

"Six or seven bucks," said Woody. He hoped for ten, but it was a

desperate hope.

"Whist, mon," said Worm, a look between astonishment and outrage

showing in his pale blue eyes. "Do ye think I'm the Bank of England?

I'll let ye have two dollars to payday and not a penny more."

He went over to the cash box, opened it as if it were the main vault of

Morgan's bank on Wall Street, and came back with a dollar bill and some

silver in his hand. He gave Woody the dollar, solemnly pronouncing the

word "One" and then counted out three quarters, two dimes, and a nickel.

"Ye'll be takin out yere lassie, nae doot," he said when this was done.

"Not on this," said Woody. He didn't want to sound ungrateful, but the

money was just not enough.

"Laddie," said Worm, "I'm a man that knows a great deal aboot

womenfolk. And there's naething truer aboot them than that if they

really love ye, they'll be wanting ye to save yere money and not go

splashing it around on them."

Woody wondered what kind of girl friends they had in Scotland when Worm

was a boy. Mary Jane wasn't a gold digger. But she liked to be taken

out now and again, and he didn't blame her for it. He looked at the

long, pale length of Worm standing before him as solemn as a preacher

and decided that he probably hadn't had any girl friends when he was

serving his apprenticeship in Scotland. From what he could gather, his

closest friends seemed to have been a kit of mechanic's tools and a

book called Davie's _Problems and Principles of Internal Combustion

Engines_.

There was just about time, now that Worm had failed to come through

with a loan, to call up Mary Jane and see whether he could postpone

their date. He hated to do it, because he suspected that Mary Jane

had had her hair done or received some other kind of unnecessary and

expensive beauty treatment in preparation for the evening.

He dialed her number, not knowing quite how he would put it, and was

further distressed when she answered the phone right away. Almost

her first statement was, "Oh, Woody, there's a movie based on one of

Somerset Maugham's books at the Criton, and I'm just dying to see it.

You ought to see it too. It got raves from the really good critics. It

would do you a lot of good."

Woody groaned. Somerset Maugham. That meant that his instincts were

correct and Mary Jane was intent upon an adult-type evening out.

"Gee," he said. "I don't think I can make it tonight, Mary Jane. I've,

er ... well, something's happened."

It seemed to Woody that the temperature around him fell about ten

degrees when he said that, and the slight silence that followed seemed

to last about five years.

"What's happened?" asked Mary Jane, and Woody could have sworn that

there was cold water trickling from the receiver which he held to his

ear.

"Well ... I just haven't got the dough right now," he said lamely.

"Woody Hartford," said Mary Jane. "You knew ten days ago about this

date. You asked for it then. You had plenty of time to call me before--"

"But, honey--" said Woody.

"Never mind," snapped Mary Jane. "I'm going to the movie, and it won't

be with you. I just hope I never see you again--you and that silly

old car of yours." Woody thought he heard a sob before the receiver

clicked in his ear.

At ten minutes to seven, Bob Peters came round with the manifold. He

swept into the service station in a yellow Buick convertible that Woody

knew he'd bought out of spare-time earnings. Woody took one look at

him, and his heart sank. Mary Jane, dressed up as lovely as a princess,

was seated beside Bob, and she looked right through him.

"The manifold's in the back," said Bob cheerfully. "Do you mind getting

it out? I don't want to soil my duds."

Woody opened up the back of the convertible and took out the manifold.

When he had put it on the ground carefully, Bob said, "That'll be ten

bucks--cash."

Woody gave the money, a five and five singles, to Bob, and Mary Jane

said, "Oh," putting more scorn and contempt into the word than Woody

would have thought possible. Then the two drove off, Mary Jane with her

nose very high in the air and her brown eyes surprisingly stony.

"What have ye got there, laddie?" Worm asked when they had gone.

Woody looked at the manifold and after the departing car. He thought of

Worm's book, Davie's _Problems and Principles of Internal Combustion

Engines_.

"I think I've got the same sort of girl friend that you had in

Scotland," he said.

In the week that followed, Woody caught only a few glimpses of Mary

Jane. She cut him dead each time. They'd had their quarrels before,

but Woody realized that this time it was pretty serious, and there was

little he could do to alter the situation.

"When a dame spends five bucks fixing up her hair to be taken out

and you spend ten bucks fixing up a hot rod and don't take her out,

you're back in the stag line again," his friend Steve Phillips told

him philosophically. "Why don't you forget about that pile of junk and

spend your time straightening things out with Mary Jane? She's a nice

kid. You ought to take more care of her."

"Wouldn't do any good," said Woody. "Besides, if she's going to be my

steady, she's got to take the hot rod as well. I'm not interested in

dames that want me to spend the rest of my life catching up on Aldous

Huxley and Somerset Maugham. Betcha neither of them can drive a car."

Woody spent the week fixing up Cindy Lou in the intervals between

working in Worm's garage. He wanted to get her ready for a trial run at

the salt lakes out in the Mojave Desert by the following Saturday. The

salt lakes were where the drag races were held. But there could be none

that weekend. However, the quarter-mile, half-mile, and mile markers

would be there, and he would be able to test Cindy Lou's speed.

In the drag races, hot rods do not compete directly with each other.

They go singly over the measured straightaway. Their speeds are

electrically timed and the winner picked on a fastest-time basis. Steve

had agreed to come out to the salt lakes to help with the timing. And

even Worm began to show an interest in Cindy Lou now that she was

nearing her test run.

He came over one evening while Woody was adjusting the tappets and

looked at Cindy Lou with enormous disfavor.

"Mon," he said, "ye're not intending ta drive that contraption, are ye?"

"Sure," said Woody. "Ought to go like a bomb. Figure I can get her up

past the hundred mark."

Worm made no reply to this other than to give a disapproving cluck of

his tongue. He was fascinated by the weird engine position and got down

on the ground on his back to examine it and the differential hook-up.

"It's all contrary to Davie's _Problems and Principles of Internal

Combustion Engines_," he said when he emerged from beneath the hot rod.

"That Davie was a sound mon, now. Ye'd do better ta spend more time

studying his book, of which I have a copy in the office. How many gears

do ye have on this beastie?"

"Two," said Woody highly flattered, despite Worm's disapproval, that he

was taking any interest in Cindy Lou at all. "Low will take her up to

about sixty-five from a standing start. I have to hit sixty before I

can shift up. Then she'll really take off."

"Hae ye figured out yere flywheel revolutions?" asked Worm.

"About six thousand revolutions per minute at maximum torque," said

Woody.

"Mon, mon," said Worm. "Davie would na' like it at all."

Nonetheless, Worm was obviously fascinated by the hot rod and gave

a grunt of approval at the way in which the various engineering

problems of its unorthodox design had been solved. Indeed, he became

so interested that after inquiring cautiously whether it would be very

expensive, he agreed to come out to the salt lakes and help with the

speed trials.

"Ye'll be needing some cold plugs, I'm thinking," he said. "The ones ye

have there'll never do the trick. I've eight I can lend ye. But ye must

gie them back when ye're through wi' them." He went into his office

while Woody looked in wonder at Steve. He'd never known Worm to show so

much interest in a car before.

"Wonder what's come over him," he said.

"Maybe he's trying to make up for not lending you that dough the other

night," Steve suggested.

Woody shook his head. "He thinks he did me a favor," he said. "His idea

of dames is that the more money they let you spend on them, the less

they are worth."

"Maybe he's got something there," said Steve.

Worm now returned with the eight plugs. They were of an Italian make,

each wrapped in a piece of greased paper on which instructions on their

care and setting were printed. Happily these were printed in English as

well.

"I'll set them myself for ye," said Worm. "But ye'd best not use them

until the speed trial. Hoo are ye going tae get yon bucket of bolts

oot to the track? Ye canna drive it through the streets wi' only two

gears. Onyway, I don't think the police would let ye, wi' the engine

beside the driver."

Woody explained that the car would have to be towed. He had a tow bar

and hoped to borrow somebody else's car for the job.

Again Worm surprised him.

"We can use the Dodge," he said. This was indeed a concession, for the

Dodge, a 1928 model, was Worm's greatest love. He'd bought it in a junk

yard for ten dollars and rebuilt it himself. Every year he took the

whole engine apart, renewed any parts that were worn, and put it back

together again. New parts he had to make himself or have made. Yet he

would not consider buying another car and puttered back and forth in

the Dodge at a maximum speed of thirty miles an hour.

The Dodge had solid wheels and strange thin tires. Its seats compelled

their occupants to sit bolt upright. It was a roadster, with a canvas

top set on oak supports. When it rained, and the top was put up, side

curtains of isinglass had to be installed to keep the rain out. The

windshield wiper operated spasmodically off the manifold vacuum, and

the gas tank, made of brass, was outside the car, slung in the rear.

Nonetheless, it never failed to start at the press of a button,

and since it couldn't go any faster than thirty miles an hour, its

two-wheel mechanical brakes were adequate.

That evening Woody worked late making up a batch of dope for Cindy

Lou. The highest octane gasoline available was not good enough to give

her top performance. She needed special fuel of which the base was

gasoline. But, to this, Woody added alcohol and nitro-methane, the

whole concoction smelling vilely and promising an explosion at any

moment.

He mixed up a total of six gallons, which he placed in three two-gallon

containers and put them in a cool part of the garage.

When he got home that evening--it was Friday--he was dog tired and

almost too excited to eat. Cindy Lou was hopped up as well as he could

do with his present equipment. She ought to do well. And if she did,

he'd enter her in the Southcal Drag Races at the old Burbank airport in

two weeks. That could mean winning a cup.

"Woody," his mother said when he came through the kitchen door.

"Somebody called you on the phone about ten minutes ago. But she hung

up without giving her name when I said you weren't in."

"Any idea who it was?" Woody asked.

"It sounded like Mary Jane," his mother replied.

"Gosh," said Woody and went immediately to the telephone. His father,

now back from his business trip and sitting in the living room reading,

sighed. He served on the City Council at Hermosa Beach and was having a

hard time analysing a report on street improvement.

"Try and keep it short," he said, but he didn't think it would do much

good. Telephone conversations with Mary Jane seemed to last a minimum

of half an hour.

"Hello," said Woody into the phone. "Mary Jane? Were you calling me?"

There was a short interval of silence during which Mr. Hartford was

shocked to discover from his report that it had cost the city $217 to

replace damaged rubbish-disposal bins during the year. Then Woody said

plaintively, "Gee, Mary Jane. I can't. I've got Cindy Lou all fixed up

and I'm going to try her out--" He didn't finish the sentence but hung

up despondently.

Mr. Hartford looked up from his report. Vague memories of similar

unsatisfactory conversations many years before with Woody's mother came

back to him.

"Something wrong, son?" he asked.

"Oh, Mary Jane wants me to go to somebody's birthday party, and now

she's mad because I have to take Cindy Lou out for a fast run."

Mr. Hartford took off his glasses and looked at his son strangely. It

was as if he had suddenly discovered a completely new aspect of his

character.

"Cindy Lou for a fast run?" he said.

"Cindy Lou is Woody's hot rod," Mrs. Hartford explained, and his father

relaxed.

"Oh," he grunted. There were times when he realized that Woody lived in

a world completely different from his own, and this was one of them.

"Never mind," said Mrs. Hartford comfortingly. "Mary Jane's a sensible

girl. She'll see things in their right light after a while. Your father

and I had many misunderstandings before we were married."

"Yes," said Woody gloomily. "But there wasn't a Bob Peters with a

yellow Buick convertible hanging around in the background."

"As I recall it," said Mr. Hartford, "there was a young medical student

by the name of Saunders who drove a Stutz Bearcat. But for my happy

intervention, my boy, you might be the son of a doctor, devoting your

life to the dissection of frogs."

Mrs. Hartford laughed, and for a moment she seemed, even to Woody, a

young girl.

Woody was up at four in the morning and met Steve and Worm at the

garage. Steve had brought two stop watches as promised, and everything

was ready, including the sandwiches that Mrs. Hartford had prepared for

the three of them. It took six hours in the Dodge to get to the Mojave

salt lake where Cindy Lou was to undergo her trials. Nobody else was

there, and during the last-minute preparations for the first run even

Worm seemed a little nervous. The cold spark plugs were put in after

Worm had gapped them properly; Woody drained the fuel from Cindy Lou's

tank and poured in his special dope.

When all was ready, Woody got into the hot rod, which, after a

complaining cough and a whirr or two, fired up.

"Warm her oop a little," said Worm. "Mon, dinna' ye install yer safety

belt?"

"Sure," said Woody. "It's on the floor." He buckled it around him and

squirmed into as comfortable a position as possible behind the wheel.

"Everybody knows what he's got to do?" he said. "Steve, you stand by

the starting line. Worm's going to be at the half-mile mark. Don't

watch me. Watch Worm. The moment I start to move, press the stop watch.

When I pass the half-mile mark, Worm will bring down the checkered

flag. Stop the watch right then. Maybe we ought to try it a couple of

times to see if everybody understands."

He made two trial runs, not pressing Cindy Lou but giving her a chance

to warm up. Everything went as planned.

"Swell," said Woody, "this time it's for real. Ready?" Steve nodded,

and Woody brought Cindy Lou to the starting line. He stopped her

dead, and then, with a slight nod of his head, slipped her in low and

stepped on the gas. The take-off flung him back against the seat. The

flat salt bed of the desert sped beneath him like a gleaming white

ribbon. Woody looked at the speedometer. Forty-five. Fifty. Fifty-five.

Sixty. Sixty-five. He slammed the clutch down and flung the gearshift

back toward him. Cindy Lou seemed to leave the ground in a clean leap

forward. Woody grinned. Smooth as silk and swift as an arrow. Boy what

a rod, he thought. He hardly saw Worm as he flashed by. It took him a

mile across the salt flats to slow down. When he got back Steve said,

"Twenty seconds."

"That's an average of ninety miles an hour over the half mile from a

standing start," said Woody. "Man, she goes like a bird. But she ought

to do better than that. This time I'll really pour the coal to her."

The second run showed an average of ninety-two miles an hour from the

standing start.

"Try her over the mile," Steve suggested. "Then you can see what she'll

do when she has time to get rolling."

Woody waited until Worm had driven out to the mile mark in the Dodge

and waved his flag to show he was ready. Then he took off again. This

time he decided that he'd wind Cindy Lou up real tight in low as fast

as he could, and jam her into high with his foot all the way down on

the accelerator. The hot rod fled down the salt flat with a defiant

snarling roar. For the split second when she was in neutral between

gear shifts, it seemed to Woody she would shake herself to pieces.

Then he flipped her into high and again experienced that clean lancing

forward as the gear took hold.

With the accelerator all the way down it seemed as if Worm and the

ground he stood upon were being flung toward him. Then, from the engine

by his side, came a strange and ominous sound. It started as nothing

more than a heavy knocking but in seconds was as if forty blacksmiths

were beating on a boiler with sledge hammers. Cindy Lou slowed down so

fast that it seemed as if her brakes had seized. Woody slipped her into

neutral and turned off the ignition. The clanging and hammering stopped

immediately.

Worm came loping up. "What happened, laddie?" he asked.

"I don't know," Woody said. "She just blew up."

"Turn her over," said Worm. Woody pressed the starter, and the grinding

and banging started immediately. Worm got down and looked under Cindy

Lou.

"Connecting rod," he said. "A piece of it has come clear through the

pan. Yere oil's leaking oot. Worse than that. It must have broken

through the cylinder wall. There's water wi' the oil."

He looked at Woody and decided not to say anything more. There was

nothing more that could be said. Cindy Lou was a wreck. She'd need a

completely new engine if she was ever to run again.

They towed her home in silence.

Woody was so depressed after Cindy Lou threw a connecting rod during

the trial runs at the salt lakes that neither Worm nor Steve could do

or say anything to cheer him up. It is possible that Mary Jane might

have been able to remove his depression, for part of it at least

stemmed from the quarrel between them. But if Mary Jane knew anything

of Woody's troubles, she left him severely alone. Woody heard through

Steve that she was going around with Bob Peters, and he wondered at

times whether he ought not to go around to Bob Peters and punch him on

the nose.

"I'd sure feel a lot better," he told Steve, "if I punched him right in

the snoot."

Steve was somewhat undersized, a freckled, sandy-haired youth who was

growing a mustache distinguishable only because it made him look as

though there was something wrong with his upper lip.

"You might feel better right when you punched him," Steve said. "But

one second later you might not feel so good. That Peters is a pretty

big guy."

"Just a sack of hog fat," said Woody savagely. "Coming right here with

my girl so she could see me handing over the ten bucks to him that I

was supposed to take her out with."

"Well, maybe he did," said Steve. "But you gotta admit it was you who

made the deal."

"Say, whose side you on anyway?" Woody asked fiercely.

"Yours, pal," said Steve. "But you won't get anywhere blaming other

people for what you did. Anyway, that's all over. Did you take the head

off Cindy Lou and see how much damage had been done?" For answer Woody

reached up to a shelf above his work bench and threw Steve a piston.

Part of a connecting rod was fastened to it, but it was snapped off in

the middle and twisted like a stick of liquorice.

"Gee," said Steve, deeply impressed. "Sure made a mess of that."

"You should look at the cylinder," said Woody. "There's a hole in the

cylinder wall big enough for an elephant to get through." He led Steve

over to a corner of the garage where the engine block of Cindy Lou lay

on the floor. There was a rent in one of the cylinder walls and deep

score marks on two others.

"What did Worm say caused it?" Steve asked.

"Jeepers, I know what caused it," said Woody. "The connecting rod

snapped in that cylinder, and I busted some rings in those other two.

That's what caused it."

"Don't get sore, pal," said Steve. "I know that's what caused it. Any

kid in the block can tell you that. But why did the connecting rod pop?

What does Worm say?"

"He says it popped because it wasn't according to Davie's _Problems and

Principles of Internal Combustion Engines_," snarled Woody.

"That's right," said Worm coming up unexpectedly. "There's a sweet

little chapter in there that will tell ye all aboot it. Noo, frae

the look of that I'd say that yere crankshaft was no properly in

balance--just enough to set up a bit of a whip in yon connecting rod.

Though it's possible the metal was a mite tired. Ye're lucky it did'na

go clean through the block and spray ye wi' scalding water and hot oil.

But dinna worrit. Nae doot one day ye'll get another and do the same

foolish thing all over again."

Woody, however, for the time being had had enough of hot rods. Every

time he looked at Cindy Lou or at the engine block lying disconsolate

on the garage floor, he felt sick. In the end, he decided to sell what

he could of her. He'd spent a total of four hundred dollars on the car,

not counting innumerable hours of his own labor. Disposed of piecemeal,

he got back eighty, reselling the carburetor manifold to Bob Peters for

eight dollars. He wasn't very happy when he heard that Bob sold it a

week later for much more.

With the eighty dollars he decided that he'd better try to patch things

up with Mary Jane. The point was, should he buy her a present and call

on her, or should he telephone her and get a date and then turn up with

a present?

He decided to telephone, and it was just as well, because she wasn't

in. She wasn't in when he called the next day either, though her

mother, Mrs. Jackson, sounded encouraging.

"I think she'll be in in a few minutes," she said. "Mary Jane just went

down to the library."

"Gee, is she still reading those swell Huxley books?" asked Woody,

determined to ingratiate himself wherever he might.

"Huxley?" said Mrs. Jackson. "No. It's not Huxley, Woody. The last

book she had was called, I think, _The Philosophy of Salesmanship_.

She's become very interested in selling lately. Last night she gave

her father quite a questioning on whether he was carrying sufficient

insurance."

"Oh," groaned Woody. "Well, thanks, Mrs. Jackson."

"Shall I tell her you'll call again when she comes in?" Mrs. Jackson

asked.

"No," said Woody. "I don't think I will, Mrs. Jackson."

"All right," said Mrs. Jackson. "I think I understand."

The next day Steve called him up. Steve was worried about Woody's

attitude, which was very gloomy, and had devised a plan that he hoped

would cheer him up.

"Listen," he said. "Got a real good deal for us. There's a tech

inspection for the sports cars for the Torrey Pines race tonight. How

about going along? Lots of cars of all kinds. Ferraris, Maseratis,

Austin Healeys, Jags, TR2's. What d'ya say?"

"Mickey Mouse stuff," was Woody's reply.

"What d'ya mean, Mickey Mouse stuff?" demanded Steve.

"There isn't enough horsepower in any one of them to go over a

cardboard box without changing gears," said Woody scornfully.

"I got news for you," said Steve. "One of the Type D Jags at the Le

Mans race recently developed two hundred and eighty-five horsepower

with a two hundred and ten cubic-inch engine. And it was running on

just plain old gasoline. You know any hot rods can do that?"

Woody admitted that he didn't.

"Well, you want to come and see these little bugs, or aren't you

interested in anything that hasn't got an engine big enough to drive a

tank?"

"I guess I can take a look at them," Woody said grudgingly.

"I was hoping you'd see it that way, on account of I need a ride."

"Just a minute," said Woody. "What kind of a deal is this? I haven't

got any transportation."

"I know you haven't, pal," replied Steve. "But if you're going, you can

talk Worm into taking us there. Tell him every one of these cars was

built by a guy who studied under Davie that wrote the book on internal

combustion engines. S'long."

Worm, however, was strangely hesitant about going to the technical

inspection. He displayed an odd mixture of keenness and reluctance,

as if half of him was excited at the prospect and half of him deeply

disturbed. His long fingers trembled slightly as he lit his cigarette,

and it took him two matches to achieve the task.

"Och," he said finally, looking queerly at Woody, "I wish ye'd said

naething of it tae me."

Woody thought that Worm was merely reluctant to take them there in his

car but, priding himself on the generosity of the Highland Scots, did

not wish to appear stingy.

"Gee, Worm," he said, "if you don't want to take the Dodge, Steve and I

can find some other way of getting there."

"It's nae that, laddie," replied Worm, remarkably serious even for him.

"It's nae that at all. It's something I had put oot of my mind a long

time ago, and I dinna ever want it to come back again. And here it is."

In his distress his Scots brogue grew thicker. Woody couldn't make any

sense at all of what he was saying.

"Skip it," said Woody. "It isn't that important."

"It's nae so easily skipped, laddie," said Worm and went into his

office.

Woody returned to his work of grinding valves, a task that demanded all

his care. By the time he was done, he had all but forgotten his date

with Steve and his strange conversation with Worm. Indeed it was nearly

time to close down the shop, and it was Worm who reminded him of his

appointment.

"Meet me here after dinner," he said. "I'll take ye tae the tech

inspection. It's a thing I must do."

After dinner he was back at the garage to find Worm there dressed in

a clean suit of coveralls. He had a box of tools with him, and Woody

was surprised that he hadn't changed into his ordinary clothing and

should have the tools with him. However, he said nothing to him about

it. On the way, Steve did most of the talking. He explained that the

inspection had two main purposes. The first was to see that all the

sports cars entered for the race were in perfect mechanical condition.

Every feature would be checked for safety, from the seal of the

gas-tank cap to the amount of tread on the tires.

"Man," he said, "they really give them the works on that safety check.

They go over everything with a fine-tooth comb--safety belts, brakes,

brake lights in the rear, steering-wheel play, anything dangling

underneath that might give trouble--they don't miss a thing. I've seen

guys ruled out because their spare tires were a little worn. It's kind

of hard to get tires for some of those foreign jobs in a hurry."

The second purpose of the inspection was to ensure that cars racing

"stock," that is, without any changes from the factory model, hadn't

been secretly souped up in some way to give the driver an advantage

over his rivals.

"You take air filters," he said. "If the factory in England or France

puts a particular kind of air filter on the car, that's the one it's

got to race with. The same kind of filter may be available over here.

Looks the same and does the job no better and no worse. But if it isn't

the factory filter, the car can't race as a stock model."

"Heck," said Woody disgusted, "if they can't soup them up, what fun is

it? Any stock car will turn in about the same performance as another

from the same factory."

"Tuning, driving skill, experience, and guts, that's what makes the

difference," said Steve. "Wait until you see these babies race. It

isn't like Indianapolis, where they just go round in a circle as hard

as they can lick. Once you get into high gear at Indianapolis, you stay

there until the race is over. These boys race on tracks that are full

of hairpin bends, S-bends, and right-angle corners. They have to know

when to shift down and when to shift up. They have to know how to shoot

a blind corner so as to skid round it and still stay on the track. It's

no game for sissies. You get into a hairpin with a cloud of Jags and

Ferraris steaming around you and about three inches to maneuver in, and

you learn how to say your prayers all over again."

It was not hard to find the building in which the technical inspection

was being held. The streets for several blocks around were jammed

with sports cars of every make. It was as if some kind of automobile

carnival was being held. There was a tenseness and excitement in the

air that was infectious. From being slightly scornful of all the

proceedings, Woody found himself increasingly interested in the cars

and the people who drove them, and a little ashamed of his previous

"Mickey Mouse" label.

With Steve he sauntered over to a green MG whose owner was screwing an

air filter in place. He was surprised at the size of the engine. It

didn't look powerful enough to run a lawn mower.

"What will it do?" Woody asked.

"Ninety. Maybe ninety-five when she's wound up real right."

"With that?" asked Woody in surprise, pointing to the little

four-cylinder engine.

"Sure," replied the owner. "Never seen one of these babies before, huh?

What do you drive?"

"Used to drive a hot rod," said Woody.

"Me, too," replied the other. "But when I found out about these I

switched. That little engine there has a displacement of just under

fifteen hundred cc.'s--"

"What's cc.'s?" asked Woody.

"Cubic centimeters. One thousand cc.'s is sixty-one cubic inches. In

other words, with a displacement of around ninety cubic inches, she

develops sixty-five horsepower. That's darn close to three quarters of

a horsepower for every cubic inch of piston displacement. Not bad, huh?"

Woody admitted that it wasn't bad at all.

"Some of the Jags will turn out one point three six hp. per cubic

inch," the MG owner said. "That's on gasoline. That's better than those

Offeuhausers do at Indianapolis using gas, alcohol, and nitro."

"Let's go look at some of the Jags and Ferraris," said Steve. "Say,

what happened to Worm?"

"Probably crawling around under one of these buggies," said Woody.

"I don't think he's ever really happy unless he's got crankcase oil

dripping in his face. He brought his tools along."

"There he is," said Steve. "Talking to that little guy over there."

They pushed their way over through a tangle of cars, drivers, and

mechanics. The cars looked mostly like toys to Woody, but he had an

increasing respect for them. Worm was talking excitedly to the other

man. The two seemed to be old friends, and this surprised Woody, for

he hadn't known that Worm had any close friends, particularly in

sports-car circles.

"Gee," the stranger was saying as they approached, "I haven't clapped

eyes on you in ten years. What are you doing with yourself these days?"

"Running my own shop and service station," said Worm.

"Anything else?" said the other.

"Nae," Worm replied.

The stranger looked at him in silence for a minute. There seemed to be

some understanding between the two of them that Woody could not fathom.

"Like you tae meet me friends," Worm said, catching sight of them and

breaking the awkward silence. "Woody Hartford and Steve Phillips. Meet

Captain Jim Randolph."

"Randy for short," said the stranger, holding out his hand. Randy was

one of the smallest men Woody had ever met. He was slim, fair-haired,

and almost boyish in appearance. There were wrinkles of humor around

his blue eyes, and he sported a mustache that would have done credit

to a guardsman. Woody guessed that he was British--either Canadian or

English.

"You the same Captain Randolph that drove with the Morgan team in the

last Le Mans?" asked Steve.

"That's me," said Randy.

"Boy, you must have got a kick out of that," said Steve.

Randy nodded. "It was a lot of fun," he said quietly.

"What are ye driving noo?" asked Worm. Randy's whole face brightened.

"Something absolutely new," he said. "I was awfully lucky to get it.

It's the only one in the country, and none of them have been raced

before. Come along and take a look." Without waiting for a reply,

he led them down the road to the back of a large building where the

technical inspection was being held. There was a crowd of drivers and

mechanics gathered around a car parked in the rear of the building,

and it was difficult to get through them. When they did, Woody found

himself looking at an automobile like something out of the next century.

The body was gleaming black, and the hood shaped like the nose of a

shark. There was no radiator, the big wheels had wire spokes, and the

dashboard had so many instruments on it that it looked like the cockpit

of an airplane. Randy pushed his way to the back, the drivers and

mechanics around making room for him, and opened what should have been

the luggage compartment.

"Rear-opposed engine, air cooled, twelve cylinders, four thousand

cc.'s. Develops three hundred horsepower at just under six thousand

revolutions per minute," he said.

"Wow," said Woody. "What do they call her?"

"She's made by Milano of Italy, and she's called the Black Tiger,"

Randy replied.

Woody sighed. Here was a real dream car. No other car could ever take

its place for him. But he would never have anything to do with it, let

alone drive it. The thought left him vaguely unhappy.

There are certain cars that those who love automobiles fall in love

with at first sight. The Black Tiger was just such a car for Woody. For

the next few days he could do little but think of it. He longed to be

associated with it, even in the humblest way. He would have cheerfully

washed and polished the Black Tiger for nothing more than the privilege

of being able to look it over in detail, from the small compact

wicked-looking power plant in the rear to the sable tiger emblem, set

on a field of silver on the front of the hood.

It would have been heaven to be behind the wheel of the Black Tiger, a

racing helmet and goggles on his head, taking her down the straightaway

of a race track at full throttle.

He besieged Worm with questions about the Black Tiger, and Worm told

him a great deal about European sports cars of all kinds. Worm seemed

to be familiar with every kind of car that had ever been manufactured,

and Woody was abashed to discover that in Worm's opinion the kind of

mechanical work they were doing in the garage was closer, as he put it,

to butchery than surgery.

"These buckets o' bolts don't call for a real mechanic," Worm said.

This so annoyed Woody that he protested American cars were acknowledged

the finest in the world.

"Aye," said Worm, "for what they're built for--plenty of horsepower so

ye don't have to change gear, fast getaway, and enough springing for

a feather bed. Ye can no beat them there. But they'll no take a sharp

corner fast. They carry aboot a ton of chrome fittings just tae make

them look pretty. They'll nae gie ye more than twelve or fourteen miles

tae a gallon of gas. Hoot mon. Do ye call it engineering when somebody

builds a two-ton car to take a two-hundred-pound man tae work?"

That quieted Woody for a while, and he went back to his dream of the

Black Tiger.

In the meantime, Mary Jane was beginning to find that the philosophy

of salesmanship and the company of Bob Peters left something to be

desired as a steady diet. It was fun, to be sure, to drive around town

in a yellow Buick convertible with the wind whipping through her dark,

curly hair. Bob had taken her out three times since their first date

and each time for the kind of adult evening that she wished Woody would

get interested in. The first time he'd taken her to a nice quiet place

where there wasn't a juke box (always a mark of sophistication for

Mary Jane) and then to a lecture at the civic auditorium. The lecture

was given by the sales manager of a big rubber company, and he had

discussed selling techniques for an hour and a half.

Bob had spent the hour and a half taking notes in a black notebook with

his name in gold letters on the front of it. Mary Jane was slightly

piqued because he hadn't said anything about her hair, which she had

fixed specially for the evening. But she reminded herself that she

was being childish and told Bob that she had found the lecture very

exciting.

This had the effect of encouraging Bob to invite her to two more

evenings of a similar nature. At one of them, a personnel manager had

discussed factors in the making of young executives. Bob took notes on

that too. At another, an advertising manager had discussed the results

of an experiment in which five hundred people had been sent circulars

in which they were promised a dollar if they returned the circular with

their names and addresses on it.

The only bright point in that lecture was that somebody had apparently

collected twenty copies of the circular from other people's trash

barrels and so got twenty dollars for himself.

When, therefore, Bob called her again with a proposal to hear a

visiting psychologist lecture on "Egotism as a Factor in Sales

Resistance," she decided she had had enough and said she was busy.

"I just don't know what's the matter with men," she said putting the

phone down. "When Woody takes me out, all he does is talk about cars.

And when Bob takes me out, he keeps trying to improve my mind. Isn't

there anybody who will take me out just because I'm _me_?"

Her mother, busy with ironing, made no comment.

"Didn't Daddy ever take you out just for you before you were married?"

Mary Jane asked.

"Oh, yes," her mother replied.

"What did you talk about?" Mary Jane asked, intrigued.

"His business mostly, I think," said Mrs. Jackson.

"Didn't he take you dancing, or for a ride in a horse and buggy in the

moonlight?"