creations of metal who exist solely for their own propulsion through
space, for whom their drivers, clinging precariously at the steering
wheel, are as important as his stenographer to a stockbroker. These are
in perpetual flux; a vortex of combining and disintegrating units; like
the confluence of traffic at some spot where many roads meet, streams of
mechanism come together, mingle and separate again.
Miles’ friend, even had it been possible in the uproar, seemed
indisposed to talk. He waved abstractedly and went on with his
listening. Presently he came across and shouted:
‘Sorry I can’t spare a moment, I’ll see you in the pits. I’ve got you
some brassards.’
‘My dear, what _can_ that be?’
He handed them each a strip of white linen, terminating in tape.
‘For your arms,’ he shouted. ‘You can’t get into the pits without them.’
‘My dear, what bliss! Fancy their having pits.’
Then they tied on their brassards. Miss Runcible’s said ‘SPARE DRIVER’;
Adam’s, ‘DEPOT STAFF’; Miles’ ‘SPARE MECHANIC’ and Archie’s, ‘OWNER’S
REPRESENTATIVE.’
Up till now the little boys round the rope had been sceptical of the
importance of Miss Runcible and her friends, but as soon as they saw
these badges of rank they pressed forward with their autograph books.
Archie signed them all with the utmost complaisance, and even drew a
slightly unsuitable picture in one of them. Then they drove away in
Archie’s car.
The race was not due to start until noon, but any indecision which they
may have felt about the employment of the next few hours was settled for
them by the local police, who were engaged in directing all traffic,
irrespective of its particular inclinations, on the road to the course.
No pains had been spared about this point of organization; several days
before, the Chief Constable had issued a little route map which was to
be memorized by all constables on point duty, and so well had they
learned their lesson that from early that morning until late in the
afternoon no vehicle approaching the town from any direction escaped
being drawn into that broad circuit marked by the arrows and dotted line
A-B which led to the temporary car park behind the Grand Stand. (Many
doctors, thus diverted, spent an enjoyable day without apparent
prejudice to their patients.)
The advance of the spectators had already assumed the form of a slow and
unbroken stream. Some came on foot from the railway station, carrying
sandwiches and camp stools; some on tandem bicycles; some in ‘runabouts’
or motor cycle side-car combinations, but most were in modestly priced
motor cars. Their clothes and demeanour proclaimed them as belonging to
the middle rank; a few brought portable wireless sets with them and
other evidence of gaiety, but the general air of the procession was one
of sobriety and purpose. This was no Derby day holiday-making; they had
not snatched a day from the office to squander it among gipsies and
roundabouts and thimble-and-pea men. They were there for the race. As
they crawled along in bottom gear in a fog of exhaust gas, they
discussed the technicalities of motor car design and the possibilities
of bloodshed, and studied their maps of the course to pick out the most
dangerous corners.
The detour planned by the Chief Constable was a long one, lined with
bungalows and converted railway carriages. Banners floated over it
between the telegraph posts, mostly advertising the _Morning Despatch_,
which was organizing the race and paying for the victor’s trophy—a
silver gilt figure of odious design, symbolizing Fame embracing Speed.
(This at the moment was under careful guard in the stewards’ room, for
the year before it had been stolen on the eve of the race by the
official time-keeper, who pawned it for a ridiculously small sum in
Manchester, and was subsequently deprived of his position and sent to
gaol.) Other advertisements proclaimed the superiorities of various
sorts of petrol and sparking plugs, while some said ‘£100 =for Loss
of Limb. Insure To-day=.’ There was also an elderly man walking
among the motor cars with a blue and white banner inscribed,
‘=Without Shedding of Blood is no Remission of Sin=’, while a
smartly dressed young man was doing a brisk trade in bogus tickets for
the Grand Stand.
Adam sat in the back of the car with Miles, who was clearly put out
about his friend’s lack of cordiality. ‘What I can’t make out,’ he said,
‘is why we came to this beastly place at all. I suppose I ought to be
thinking of something to write for the _Excess_. I _know_ this is just
going to be the most dreary day we’ve ever spent.’
Adam felt inclined to agree. Suddenly he became aware that some one was
trying to attract his attention.
‘There’s an awful man shouting “Hi” at you,’ said Miles. ‘My dear, _your
friends_.’
Adam turned and saw not three yards away, separated from him by a young
woman riding a push-bicycle in khaki shorts, her companion, who bore a
knapsack on his shoulders, and a small boy selling programmes, the
long-sought figure of the drunk Major. He looked sober enough this
morning, dressed in a bowler hat and Burberry, and he was waving
frantically to Adam from the dicky of a coupé car.
‘Hi!’ cried the drunk Major. ‘Hi! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ shouted Adam. ‘I want some money.’
‘Can’t hear—what do you want?’
‘Money.’
‘It’s no good—these infernal things make too much noise. What’s your
name? Lottie had forgotten.’
‘Adam Symes.’
‘Can’t hear.’
The line of traffic, creeping forward yard by yard, had at last reached
the point B on the Chief Constable’s map, where the dotted lines
diverged. A policeman stood at the crossing directing the cars right and
left, some to the parking place behind the Grand Stand, others to the
mound above the pits. Archie turned on to the left. The drunk Major’s
car accelerated and swept away to the right.
‘_I must know your name_,’ he cried. All the drivers seemed to choose
this moment to sound their horns; the woman cyclist at Adam’s elbow rang
her bell; the male cyclist tooted a little horn like a Paris taxi, and
the programme boy yelled in his ear, ‘Official programme—map of the
course—all the drivers.’
‘Adam Symes,’ he shouted desperately, but the Major threw up his hands
in despair and he disappeared in the crowd.
‘_The way you pick people up . . ._’ said Miles, startled into
admiration.
‘The pits’ turned out to be a line of booths, built of wood and
corrugated iron immediately opposite the Grand Stand. Many of the cars
had already arrived and stood at their ‘pits’, surrounded by a knot of
mechanics and spectators; they seemed to be already under repair. Busy
officials hurried up and down, making entries in their lists. Over their
heads a vast loud speaker was relaying the music of a military band.
The Grand Stand was still fairly empty, but the rest of the course was
already lined with people. It stretched up and down hill for a circle of
thirteen or fourteen miles, and those who were fortunate enough to own
cottages or public houses at the more dangerous corners had covered
their roofs with unstable wooden forms, and were selling tickets like
very expensive hot cakes. A grass-covered hill rose up sharply behind
the pits. On this had been erected a hoarding where a troop of Boy
Scouts were preparing to score the laps, passing the time contentedly
with ginger beer, toffee, and rough-and-tumble fights. Behind the
hoarding was a barbed wire fence, and behind that again a crowd of
spectators and several refreshment tents. A wooden bridge, advertising
the _Morning Despatch_, had been built on the road. At various points
officials might be seen attempting to understand each other over a field
telephone. Sometimes the band would stop and a voice would announce,
‘Will Mr So-and-So kindly report at once to the time-keeper’s office’;
then the band would go on.
Miss Runcible and her party found their way to the pit numbered 13 and
sat on the matchboard counter smoking and signing autograph books. An
official bore down on them.
‘No smoking in the pits, please.’
‘My dear, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t know.’
There were six open churns behind Miss Runcible, four containing petrol
and two water. She threw her cigarette over her shoulder, and by a
beneficent attention of Providence which was quite rare in her career it
fell into the water. Had it fallen into the petrol it would probably
have been all up with Miss Runcible.
Presently No. 13 appeared. Miles’ friend and his mechanic wearing
overalls, crash-helmets, and goggles, jumped out, opened the bonnet and
began to reconstruct it again.
‘They didn’t ought to have a No. 13 at all,’ said the mechanic. ‘It
isn’t fair.’
Miss Runcible lit another cigarette.
‘No smoking in the pits, _please_,’ said the official.
‘My dear, how _awful_ of me. I quite forgot.’
(This time it fell in the mechanic’s luncheon basket and lay smouldering
quietly on a leg of chicken until it had burnt itself out.)
Miles’ friend began filling up his petrol tank with the help of a very
large funnel.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You’re not allowed to hand me anything direct, but
if Edwards holds up his left hand as we come past the pits, that means
we shall be stopping next lap for petrol. So what you’ve got to do is to
fill up a couple of cans and put them on the shelf with the funnel for
Edwards to take. If Edwards holds up his right hand . . .’ elaborate
instructions followed. ‘You’re in charge of the depôt,’ he said to
Archie. ‘D’you think you’ve got all the signals clear? The race may
depend on them, remember.’
‘What does it mean if I wave the blue flag?’
‘That you want me to stop.’
‘Why should I want you to stop?’
‘Well, you might see something wrong—leaking tank or anything like
that, or the officials might want the number plate cleaned.’
‘I think perhaps I won’t do anything much about the blue flag. It seems
rather too bogus for me.’
Miss Runcible lit another cigarette.
‘Will you kindly leave the pits if you wish to smoke?’ said the
official.
‘What a damned rude man,’ said Miss Runcible. ‘Let’s go up to that
divine tent and get a drink.’
They climbed the hill past the Boy Scouts, found a gate in the wire
fence, and eventually reached the refreshment tent. Here an atmosphere
of greater geniality prevailed. A profusion of men in plus-fours were
having ‘quick ones’ before the start. There was no nonsense about not
smoking. There was a middle-aged woman sitting on the grass with a
bottle of stout and a baby.
‘Home from home,’ said Miss Runcible.
Suddenly the military band stopped and a voice said, ‘Five minutes to
twelve. All drivers and mechanics on the other side of the track,
please.’
There was a hush all over the course, and the refreshment tent began to
empty quickly.
‘Darling, we shall miss the start.’
‘Still, a drink _would_ be nice.’
So they went into the tent.
‘Four whiskies, please,’ said Archie Schwert.
‘You’ll miss the start,’ said the barmaid.
‘What a pig that man was,’ said Miss Runcible. ‘Even if we weren’t
supposed to smoke, he might at least have asked us politely.’
‘My dear, it was only you.’
‘Well, I think that made it worse.’
‘Lor’, Miss,’ said the barmaid. ‘You surely ain’t going to miss the
start?’
‘It’s the one thing I want to see more than anything . . . my dear, I
believe they’re off already.’
The sudden roar of sixty high-power engines rose from below. ‘They
_have_ started . . . how too shaming.’ They went to the door of the
tent. Part of the road was visible over the heads of the spectators, and
they caught a glimpse of the cars running all jammed together like pigs
being driven through a gate; one by one they shook themselves free and
disappeared round the bend with a high shriek of acceleration.
‘They’ll be round again in quarter of an hour,’ said Archie. ‘Let’s have
another drink.’
‘Who was ahead?’ asked the barmaid anxiously.
‘I couldn’t see for certain,’ said Miss Runcible, ‘but I’m fairly sure
it was No. 13.’
‘_My!_’
The refreshment tent soon began to fill up again. The general opinion
seemed to be that it was going to be a close race between No. 13 and No.
28, a red Omega car, driven by Marino, the Italian ‘ace’.
‘Dirtiest driver I ever seen,’ said one man with relish.
‘Why, over at Belfast ’e was just tipping ’em all into the ditches, just
like winking.’
‘There’s one thing you _can_ be sure of. They won’t _both_ finish.’
‘It’s sheer murder the way that Marino drives—a fair treat to see ’im.’
‘He’s a one all right—a real artist and no mistake about it.’
Adam and Miss Runcible and Archie and Miles went back to their pit.
‘After all,’ said Miss Runcible, ‘the poor sweet may be wanting all
sorts of things and signalling away like mad, and no one there to pay
any attention to him—so discouraging.’
By this time the cars were fairly evenly spread out over the course.
They flashed by intermittently with dazzling speed and a shriek; one or
two drew into their pits and the drivers leapt out, trembling like
leaves, to tinker with the works. One had already come to grief—a large
German whose tyre had burst—punctured, some said, by a hireling of
Marino’s. It had left the road and shot up a tree like a cat chased by a
dog. Two little American cars had failed to start; their team worked
desperately at them amid derisive comments from the crowd. Suddenly two
cars appeared coming down the straight, running abreast within two feet
of each other.
‘It’s No. 13,’ cried Miss Runcible, really excited at last. ‘And there’s
that Italian devil just beside it. Come on, thirteen! Come on!’ she
cried, dancing in the pit and waving a flag she found at hand. ‘Come on.
Oh! Well done, thirteen.’
The cars were gone in a flash and succeeded by others.
‘Agatha, darling, you shouldn’t have waved the blue flag.’
‘My dear, how awful. Why not?’
‘Well, that means that he’s to stop next lap.’
‘Good God. Did I wave a blue flag?’
‘My dear, you know you did.’
‘_How_ shaming. What _am_ I to say to him?’
‘Let’s all go away before he comes back.’
‘D’you know, I think we’d better. He might be furious, mightn’t he?
Let’s go to the tent and have another drink—don’t you think, or don’t
you?’
So No. 13 pit was again deserted.
‘What did I say?’ said the mechanic. ‘The moment I heard we’d drawn this
blinkin’ number I knew we was in for trouble.’
The first person they saw when they reached the refreshment tent was the
drunk Major.
‘Your boy friend again,’ said Miles.
‘Well, there you are,’ said the Major. ‘D’you know I’ve been chasing you
all over London. What have you been doing with yourself all this time?’
‘I’ve been staying at Lottie’s.’
‘Well, she said she’d never heard of you. You see, I don’t mind
admitting I’d had a few too many that night, and to tell you the truth I
woke up with things all rather a blur. Well then I found a thousand
pounds in my pocket, and it all came back to me. There’d been a cove at
Lottie’s who gave me a thousand pounds to put on Indian Runner. Well, as
far as I knew, Indian Runner was no good. I didn’t want to lose your
money for you, but the devil of it was I didn’t know you from Adam.’ (‘I
think that’s a perfect joke,’ said Miss Runcible.) ‘And apparently
Lottie didn’t either. You’d have thought it was easy enough to trace the
sort of chap who deals out thousands of pounds to total strangers, but I
couldn’t find one fingerprint.’
‘Do you mean,’ said Adam, a sudden delirious hope rising in his heart,
‘that you’ve still got my thousand?’
‘Not so fast,’ said the Major. ‘I’m spinning this yarn. Well, on the day
of the race I didn’t know what to do. One half of me said, keep the
thousand. The chap’s bound to turn up some time, and it’s his business
to do his own punting—the other half said, put it on the favourite for
him and give him a run for his money.’
‘So you put it on the favourite?’ Adam’s heart felt like lead again.
‘No, I didn’t. In the end I said, well, the young chap must be
frightfully rich. If he likes to throwaway his money, it’s none of my
business, so I planked it all on Indian Runner for you.’
‘You mean . . .’
‘I mean I’ve got the nice little packet of thirty-five thou. waiting
until you condescend to call for it.’
‘Good heavens . . . look here, have a drink, won’t you?’
‘That’s a thing I never refuse.’
‘Archie, lend me some money until I get this fortune.’
‘How much?’
‘Enough to buy five bottles of champagne.’
‘Yes, if you can get them.’
The barmaid had a case of champagne at the back of the tent. (‘People
often feel queer through watching the cars go by so fast—ladies
especially,’ she explained.) So they took a bottle each and sat on the
side of the hill and drank to Adam’s prosperity.
‘Hullo, everybody,’ said the loud speaker. ‘Car No. 28, the Italian
Omega, driven by Captain Marino, has just completed the course in twelve
minutes one second, lapping at an average speed of 78·3 miles per hour.
This is the fastest time yet recorded.’
A burst of applause greeted this announcement, but Adam said, ‘I’ve
rather lost interest in this race.’
‘Look here, old boy,’ the Major said when they were well settled down,
‘I’m rather in a hole. Makes me feel an awful ass, saying so, but the
truth is I got my note-case pinched in the crowd. Of course, I’ve got
plenty of small change to see me back to the hotel and they’ll take a
cheque of mine there, naturally, but the fact is I was keen to make a
few bets with some chaps I hardly know. I wonder, old boy, could you
possibly lend me a fiver? I can give it to you at the same time as I
hand over the thirty-five thousand.’
‘Why, of course,’ said Adam. ‘Archie, lend me a fiver, can you?’
‘Awfully good of you,’ said the Major, tucking the notes into his hip
pocket. ‘Would it be all the same if you made it a tenner while we’re
about it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Archie, with a touch of coldness. ‘I’ve only just got
enough to get home with.’
‘That’s all right, old boy, _I_ understand. Not another word. . . .
Well, here’s to us all.’
‘I was on the course at the November Handicap,’ said Adam. ‘I thought I
saw you.’
‘It would have saved a lot of fuss if we’d met, wouldn’t it? Still,
all’s well that end’s well.’
‘What an _angelic_ man your Major is,’ said Miss Runcible.
When they had finished their champagne, the Major—now indisputably
drunk—rose to go.
‘Look here, old boy,’ he said. ‘I must be toddling along now. Got to see
some chaps. Thanks no end for the binge. So jolly having met you all
again. Bye-bye, little lady.’
‘When shall we meet again?’ said Adam.
‘Any time, old boy. Tickled to death to see you any time you care to
drop in. Always a pew and a drink for old friends. So long everybody.’
‘But couldn’t I come and see you soon? About the money, you know.’
‘Sooner the better, old boy. Though I don’t know what you mean about
money.’
‘My thirty-five thousand.’
‘Why, yes, to be sure. Fancy my forgetting that. I tell you what. You
roll along to-night to the Imperial and I’ll give it to you then. Jolly
glad to get it off my chest. Seven o’clock at the American bar—or a
little before.’
‘Let’s go back and look at the motor cars,’ said Archie.
They went down the hill feeling buoyant and detached (as one should if
one drinks a great deal before luncheon). When they reached the pits
they decided they were hungry. It seemed too far to climb up to the
dining tent, so they ate as much of the mechanic’s lunch as Miss
Runcible’s cigarette had spared. Then a mishap happened to No. 13. It
drew into the side uncertainly, with the mechanic holding the steering
wheel. A spanner, he told them, thrown from Marino’s car as they were
passing him under the railway bridge, had hit Miles’ friend on the
shoulder. The mechanic helped him get out, and supported him to the Red
Cross tent. ‘May as well scratch,’ he said. ‘He won’t be good for
anything more this afternoon. It’s asking for trouble having a No. 13.’
Miles went to help his friend, leaving Miss Runcible and Adam and Archie
staring rather stupidly at their motor car. Archie hiccoughed slightly
as he ate the mechanic’s apple.
Soon an official appeared.
‘What happened here?’ he said.
‘Driver’s just been murdered,’ said Archie. ‘Spanner under the railway
bridge. Marino.’
‘Well, are you going to scratch? Who’s spare driver?’
‘I don’t know. Do you, Adam? I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if they
hadn’t murdered the spare driver, too.’
‘I’m spare driver,’ said Miss Runcible. ‘It’s on my arm.’
‘She’s spare driver. Look, it’s on her arm.’
‘Well, do you want to scratch?’
‘Don’t you scratch, Agatha.’
‘No, I don’t want to scratch.’
‘All right. What’s your name?’
‘Agatha. I’m the spare driver. It’s on my arm.’
‘I can see it is—all right, start off as soon as you like.’
‘Agatha,’ repeated Miss Runcible firmly as she climbed into the car.
‘It’s on my arm.’
‘I say, Agatha,’ said Adam. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘It’s on my arm,’ said Miss Runcible severely.
‘I mean, are you quite certain it’s absolutely safe?’
‘Not _absolutely_ safe, Adam. Not if they throw spanners. But I’ll go
quite slowly at first until I’m used to it. Just you see. Coming too?’
‘I’ll stay and wave the flag,’ said Adam.
‘That’s right. Good-bye . . . goodness, how too stiff-scaring. . . .’
The car shot out into the middle of the road, missed a collision by a
foot, swung round and disappeared with a roar up the road.
‘I say, Archie, is it all right being tight in a car, if it’s on a race
course? They won’t run her in or anything?’
‘No, no, that’s all right. All tight on the race course.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘All of them?’
‘Absolutely every one—tight as houses.’
‘That’s all right then. Let’s go and have a drink.’
So they went up the hill again, through the Boy Scouts, to the
refreshment tent.
It was not long before Miss Runcible was in the news.
‘Hullo, everybody,’ said the loud speaker. ‘No 13, the English
Plunket-Bowse, driven by Miss Agatha, came into collision at Headlong
Corner with No. 28, the Italian Omega car, driven by Captain Marino. No
13 righted itself and continued on the course. No. 28 overturned and has
retired from the race.’
‘Well done, Agatha,’ said Archie.
A few minutes later:
‘Hullo, everybody. No. 13, the English Plunket-Bowse, driven by Miss
Agatha, has just completed the course in nine minutes forty-one seconds.
This constitutes a record for the course.’
Patriotic cheers broke out on all sides, and Miss Runcible’s health was
widely drunk in the refreshment tent.
A few minutes later:
‘Hullo, everybody; I have to contradict the announcement recently made
that No. 13, the English Plunket-Bowse, driven by Miss Agatha, had
established a record for the course. The stewards have now reported that
No. 13 left the road just after the level crossing and cut across
country for five miles, rejoining the track at the Red Lion corner. The
lap has therefore been disallowed by the judges.’
A few minutes later:
‘Hullo, everybody; No. 13, the English Plunket-Bowse car, driven by Miss
Agatha, has retired from the race. It disappeared from the course some
time ago, turning left instead of right at Church Corner, and was last
seen proceeding south on the bye-road, apparently out of control.’
‘My dear, that’s lucky for me,’ said Miles. ‘A really good story my
second day on the paper. This ought to do me good with the
_Excess_—_very_ rich-making,’ and he hurried off to the post office
tent—which was one of the amenities of the course—to despatch a long
account of Miss Runcible’s disaster.
Adam accompanied him and sent a wire to Nina: ‘_Drunk Major in
refreshment tent not bogus thirty-five thousand married to-morrow
everything perfect Agatha lost love Adam._’
‘That seems quite clear,’ he said.
They went to the hospital tent after this—another amenity of the
course—to see how Miles’ friend was getting on. He seemed in some pain
and showed anxiety about his car.
‘I think it’s very heartless of him,’ said Adam. ‘He ought to be worried
about Agatha. It only shows . . .’
‘Motor men _are_ heartless,’ said Miles, with a sigh.
Presently Captain Marino was borne in on a stretcher. He turned on his
side with a deep groan and spat at Miles’ friend as he went past him. He
also spat at the doctor who came to bandage him and bit one of the
V.A.D.’s.
They said Captain Marino was no gentleman in the hospital tent.
There was no chance of leaving the course before the end of the race,
Archie was told, and the race would not be over for at least two hours.
Round and round went the stream of cars. At intervals the Boy Scouts
posted a large red R against one or other of the numbers, as engine
trouble or collision or Headlong Corner took its toll. A long queue
stretched along the top of the hill from the door of the luncheon tent.
Then it began to rain.
There was nothing for it but to go back to the bar.