to me to hear you tell him you didn't want him around because Mr. Dick
took his place. I know, and Miss Emily knows, that Dick Ffrench was no
use on earth for any place until Mr. David took him in hand and made
him fit to live. That's all, I guess, that I had to say; I'll get back
to work." He turned, but paused to glance around. "It's going to be
pretty dull at the factory for me. And between us we've sent Lestrange
to the track with a nice set of nerves."
His retreating footsteps died away to leave the noon hush unbroken. As
before, uncle and niece were left opposite each other, the crumpled
newspaper where Lestrange's name showed in heavy type still lying on
the floor between them.
The effect of Bailey's final sentence had been to leave Emily dizzied
by apprehension. But when Mr. Ffrench rose and passed out, she aroused
to look up at him eagerly.
"Uncle," she faltered.
Disregarding or unseeing her outstretched hand, he went on and left
her there alone. And then Emily dared rescue the newspaper.
"A substitute," she whispered. "A substitute," and laid her wet cheek
against the pictured driver.
No one lunched at the Ffrench home that day, except the servants. Near
three o'clock in the afternoon Mr. Ffrench came back to the pavilion
where Emily still sat.
"Go change your gown," he commanded, in his usual tone. "We will start
now. I have sent for Bailey and ordered Anderson to bring the
automobile."
"Start?" she wondered, bewildered.
He met her gaze with a stately repellence of comment.
"For the Beach. I understand this race lasts twenty-four hours. Have
you any objection?"
Objection to being near David! Emily sprang to her feet.
VIII
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."
Rupert leaned out, all good-humor once more as he pointed to the
machine.
"Got a healthy talk, what?" he exulted.
The car darted forward.
A long round of applause welcomed Lestrange's swooping advent on the
track. Handkerchiefs and scarfs were waved; his name passed from mouth
to mouth.
"Popular, ain't he?" chuckled a mechanic next to Dick. "They don't
forget that Georgia trick, no, sir."
It was not many times that the cars could circle the track. Quarter of
six blew from whistles and klaxons, signal flags sent the cars to
their camps for the last time before the race.
"Come here," Lestrange beckoned to Dick, as he brought his machine
shuddering to a standstill before the tent. "Here, close--we've got a
moment while they fill tanks."
He unhooked his goggles and leaned over as Dick came beside the wheel,
the face so revealed bright and quiet in the sunset glow of color.
"One never knows what may happen," he said. "I'd rather tell you now
than chance your feeling afterward that I didn't treat you quite
squarely in keeping still. I hope you won't take it as my father did;
we've been good chums, you and I. I'm your cousin, David Ffrench."
The moment furnished no words. Dick leaned against the car, absolutely
limp.
"Of course, I'm not going back to Ffrenchwood. After this race I shall
go to the Duplex Company; I used to be with them and they've wanted me
back. Your company can get along without me, now all is running
well--indeed, Mr. Ffrench has dismissed me." His firm lip bent a
little more firmly. "The work I was doing is in your hands and
Bailey's; see it through. Unless you too want to break off with me,
we'll have more time to talk over this."
"Break off!" Dick straightened his chubby figure. "Break off with you,
Les--"
"Go on. My name is Lestrange now and always."
A shriek from the official klaxon summoned the racers, Rupert swung
back to his seat. Dick reached up his hand to the other in the first
really dignified moment of his life.
"I'm glad you're my kin, Lestrange," he said. "I've liked you anyhow,
but I'm glad, just the same. And I don't care what rot they say of
you. Take care of yourself."
Lestrange bared his hand to return the clasp, his warm smile flashing
to his cousin; then the swirl of preparation swept between them and
Dick next saw him as a part of one of the throbbing, flaming row of
machines before the judges' stand.
It was not a tranquilizing experience for an amateur to witness the
start, when the fourteen powerful cars sprang simultaneously for the
first curve, struggling for possession of the narrow track in a wheel
to wheel contest where one mistouch meant the wreck of many. After
that first view, Dick sat weakly down on an oil barrel and watched the
race in a state of fascinated endurance.
The golden and violet sunset melted pearl-like into the black cup of
night. The glare of many searchlights made the track a glistening band
of white around which circled the cars, themselves gemmed with white
and crimson lamps. The cheers of the people as the lead was taken by
one favorite or another, the hum of voices, the music and uproar of
the machines blended into a web of sound indescribable. The spectacle
was at once ultramodern and classic in antiquity of conception.
At eight o'clock Lestrange came flying in, sent off the track to have
a lamp relighted.
"Water," he demanded tersely, in the sixty seconds of the stop, and
laughed openly at Dick's expression while he took the cup.
"Why didn't you light it out there?" asked the novice, infected by the
speed fever around him.
"Forgot our matches," Rupert flung over his shoulder, as they dashed
out again.
An oil-smeared mechanic patronizingly explained:
"You can't have cars manicuring all over the track and people tripping
over 'em. You get sent off to light up, and if you don't go they fine
you laps made."
Machines darted in and out from their camps at intervals, each waking
a frenzy of excitement among its men. At ten o'clock the Mercury car
came in again, this time limping with a flat tire, to be fallen on by
its mechanics.
"We're leading, but we'll lose by this," said Lestrange, slipping out
to relax and meditatively contemplating the alternate driver, who was
standing across the camp. "Ffrench, at twelve I'll have to come in to
rest some, and turn my machine over to the other man. And I won't have
him wrecking it for me. I want you, as owner, to give him absolute
orders to do no speeding; let him hold a fifty-two mile an hour
average until I take the wheel again."
"Me?"
"I can't do it. You, of course."
"You could," Dick answered. "I've been thinking how you and I will
run that factory together. It's all stuff about your going away; why
should you? You and your father take me as junior partner; you know
I'm not big enough for anything else."
"You're man's size," Lestrange assured, a hand on his shoulder.
"But--it won't do. I'll not forget the offer, though, never."
"All on!" a dozen voices signaled; men scattered in every direction as
Lestrange sprang to his place.
The hours passed on the wheels of excitement and suspense. When
Lestrange came in again, only a watch convinced Dick that it was
midnight.
"You gave the order?" Lestrange asked.
"Yes."
He descended, taking off his mask and showing a face white with
fatigue under the streaks of dust and grime.
"I'll be all right in half an hour," he nodded, in answer to Dick's
exclamation. "Send one of the boys for coffee, will you, please?
Rupert needs some, too. Here, one of you others, ask one of those idle
doctor's apprentices to come over with a fresh bandage; my arm's a
trifle untidy."
In fact, his right sleeve was wet and red, where the strain of driving
had reopened the injury of the day before. But he would not allow Dick
to speak of it.
"I'm going to spend an hour or two resting. Come in, Ffrench, and
we'll chat in the intervals, if you like."
"And Rupert? Where's he?" Dick wondered, peering into the dark with a
vague impression of lurking dangers on every side.
"He's hurried in out of the night air," reassured familiar accents; a
small figure lounged across into the light, making vigorous use of a
dripping towel. "Tell Darling I feel faint and I'm going over to that
grand-stand cafe _a la_ car to get some pie. I'll be back in time to
read over my last lesson from the chauffeurs' correspondence school.
Oh, see what's here!"
A telegraph messenger boy had come up to Dick.
"Richard Ffrench?" he verified. "Sign, please."
The message was from New York.
"All coming down," Dick read. "Limousine making delay. Wire me St.
Royal of race. Bailey."
Far from pleased, young Ffrench hurriedly wrote the desired answer and
gave it to the boy to be sent. But he thrust the yellow envelope into
his pocket before turning to the tent where Lestrange was drinking
cheap black coffee while an impatient young surgeon hovered near.
The hour's rest was characteristically spent. Washed, bandaged, and
refreshed, Lestrange dropped on a cot in the back of the tent and
pushed a roll of motor garments beneath his head for a pillow. There
he intermittently spoke to his companion of whatever the moment
suggested; listening to every sound of the race and interspersing
acute comment, starting up whenever the voice of his own machine
hinted that the driver was disobeying instructions or the shrill
klaxon gave warning of trouble. But through it all Dick gathered much
of the family story.
"My mother was a Californian," Lestrange once said, coming back from a
tour of inspection. "She was twenty times as much alive as any Ffrench
that ever existed, I've been told. I fancy she passed that quality on
to me--you know she died when I was born--for I nearly drove the
family mad. They expected the worst of me, and I gave the best worst I
had. But," he turned to Dick the clear candor of his smile, "it was
rather a decent worst, I honestly believe. The most outrageous thing I
ever did was to lead a set of seniors in hoisting a cow into the
Dean's library, one night, and so get myself expelled from college."
"A cow?" the other echoed.
"A fat cow, and it mooed," he stuffed the pillow into a more
comfortable position. "Is that our car running in? No, it's just
passing. If Frank doesn't wreck my machine, I'll get this race. And
then, the same week, my chum and room-mate ran away with a Doraflora
girl of some variety show and married her. I was romantic myself at
twenty-one, so I helped him through with it. He was wealthy and she
was pretty; it seemed to fit. I believe they've stayed married ever
since, by the way. But somehow the reporters got affairs mixed and
published me as the bridegroom. Have you got a cigar? I smoke about
three times a year, and this is one of them. Yes, there was a fine
scene when I went home that night, a Broadway melodrama. I lost my
temper easier then; by the time my father and uncle gave me time to
speak, I was too angry to defend myself and set them right. I supposed
they would learn the truth by the next day, anyhow. And I left home
for good in a dinner-coat and raglan, with something under ten dollars
in odd change. What's that!"
"That" was the harsh alarm of the official klaxon, coupled with the
cry of countless voices. The ambulance gong clanged as Lestrange
sprang to his feet and reached the door.
"Which car?" he called.
Rupert answered first:
"Not ours. Number eight's burning up after a smash on the far turn."
"Jack's car," identified Lestrange, and stood for an instant. "Go flag
Frank; I'll take the machine again myself. It's one o'clock, and I've
got to win this race."
Several men ran across to the track in compliance. Lestrange turned to
make ready, but paused beside the awed Dick to look over the infield
toward the flaming blotch against the dark sky.
"He was in to change a tire ten minutes ago," observed Rupert, beside
them. "'Tell Lestrange I'm doin' time catchin' him,' he yelled to me.
Here's hoping his broncho machine pitched him clear from the
fireworks."
When the Mercury car swung in, a few moments later, Lestrange lingered
for a last word to Dick.
"I'm engaged to Emily," he said gravely. "I don't know what she will
hear of me; if anything happens, I've told you the truth. I'm old
enough to see it now. And I tried to square things."
IX
In the delicate, fresh June dawn, the Ffrench limousine crept into the
Beach inclosure.
"We're here," said Bailey, to his traveling companions. "You can't
park the car front by the fence; Mr. David might see you and kill
himself by a misturn. Come up to the grand-stand seats."
Mr. Ffrench got out in silence and assisted Emily to descend; a pale
and wide-eyed Emily behind her veil.
"The boys were calling extras," she suggested faintly. "They said
three accidents on the track."
Bailey turned to a blue and gold official passing.
"Number seven all right?" he asked.
"On the track, Lestrange driving," was the prompt response. "Leading
by thirty-two miles."
A little of Emily's color rushed back. Satisfied, Bailey led the way
to the tiers of seats, almost empty at this hour. Pearly,
unsubstantial in the young light, lay the huge oval meadow and the
track edging it. Of the fourteen cars starting, nine were still
circling their course, one temporarily in its camp for supplies.
"I've sent over for Mr. Dick," Bailey informed the other two. "He's
been here, and he can tell what's doing. Four cars are out of the
race. There's Mr. David, coming!"
A gray machine shot around the west curve, hurtled roaring down the
straight stretch past the stand and crossed before them, the
mechanician rising in his seat to catch the pendant linen streamers
and wipe the dust from the driver's goggles in preparation for the
"death turn" ahead. There was a series of rapid explosions as the
driver shut off his motor, the machine swerved almost facing the
infield fence and slid around the bend with a skidding lurch that
threw a cloud of soil high in the air. Emily cried out, Mr. Ffrench
half rose in his place.
"What's the matter?" dryly queried Bailey. "He's been doing that all
night; and a mighty pretty turn he makes, too. He's been doing it for
about five years, in fact, to earn his living, only we didn't see him.
Here goes another."
Mr. Ffrench put on his pince-nez, preserving the dignity of outward
composure. Emily saw and heard nothing; she was following Lestrange
around the far sides of the course, around until again he flashed
past her, repeating his former feat with appalling exactitude.
It was hardly more than five minutes before Dick came hurrying toward
them; cross, tired, dust-streaked and gasolene-scented.
"I don't see why you wanted to come," he began, before he reached
them. "I'm busy enough now. We're leading; if Lestrange holds out
we'll win. But he's driving alone; Frank went out an hour ago, on the
second relief, when he went through the paddock fence and broke his
leg. It didn't hurt the machine a bit, except tires, but it lost us
twenty-six laps. And it leaves Lestrange with thirteen steady hours at
the wheel. He says he can do it."
"He's fit?" Bailey questioned.
Dick turned a peevish regard upon him.
"I don't know what you call fit. He says he is. His hands are
blistered already, his right arm has been bandaged twice where he hurt
it pulling me away from the gear-cutter yesterday, and he's had three
hours' rest out of the last eleven. See that heap of junk over there;
that's where the Alan car burned up last night and sent its driver and
mechanician to the hospital. I suppose if Lestrange isn't fit and
makes a miscue we'll see something like that happen to him and
Rupert."
"No!" Emily cried piteously.
Remorse clutched Dick.
"I forgot you, cousin," he apologized. "Don't go off; Lestrange swears
he feels fine and gibes at me for worrying. Don't look like that."
"Richard, you will go down and order our car withdrawn from the race,"
Mr. Ffrench stated, with his most absolute finality. "This has
continued long enough. If we had not been arrested in New York for
exceeding the speed limit, I should have been here to end this scene
at midnight."
Stunned, his nephew stared at him.
"Withdraw!"
"Precisely. And desire David to come here."
"I won't," said Dick flatly. "If you want to rub it into Lestrange
that way, send Bailey. And I say it's a confounded shame."
"Richard!"
His round face ablaze, Dick thrust his hands in his pockets, facing
his uncle stubbornly.
"After his splendid fight, to stop him now? Do you know how they take
being put out, those fellows? Why, when the Italian car went off the
track for good, last night, with its chain tangled up with everything
underneath, its driver sat down and cried. And you'd come down on
Lestrange when he's winning--I won't do it, I won't! Send Bailey; I
can't tell him."
"If you want to discredit the car and its driver, Mr. Ffrench, you can
do it without me," slowly added Bailey. "But it won't be any use to
send for Mr. David, because he won't come."
The autocrat of his little world looked from one rebel to the other,
confronted with the unprecedented.
"If I wish to withdraw him, it is to place him out of danger," he
retorted with asperity. "Not because I wish to mortify him,
naturally. Is that clear? Does he want to pass the next thirteen hours
under this ordeal?"
"I'll tell you what he wants," answered Dick. "He wants to be let
alone. It seems to me he's earned that."
Ethan Ffrench opened his lips, and closed them again without speech.
It had not been his life's habit to let people alone and the art was
acquired with difficulty.
"I admit I do not comprehend the feelings you describe," he conceded,
at last. "But there is one person who has the right to decide whether
David shall continue this risk of his life. Emily, do you wish the car
withdrawn?"
There was a gasp from the other two men.
"I?" the young girl exclaimed, amazed. "I can call him here--safe--"
Her voice died out as Lestrange's car roared past, overtaking two
rivals on the turn and sliding between them with an audacity that
provoked rounds of applause from the spectators. To call him in from
that, to have him safe with her--the mere thought was a delight that
caught her breath. Yet, she knew Lestrange.
The three men watched her in keen suspense. The Mercury car had passed
twice again before she raised her head, and in that space of a hundred
seconds Emily reached the final unselfishness.
"What David wants," she said. "Uncle, what David wants."
"You're a brick!" cried Dick, in a passion of relief. "Emily, you're a
brick!"
She looked at him with eyes he never forgot.
"If anything happens to him, I hope I die too," she answered, and drew
the silk veil across her face.
"Go back, Mr. Dick, you're no good here," advised Bailey, in the
pause. "I guess Miss Emily is right, Mr. Ffrench; we've got nothing to
do but look on, for David Ffrench was wiped out to make Darling
Lestrange."
Having left the decision to Emily, it was in character that her uncle
offered no remonstrance when she disappointed his wish. Nor did he
reply to Bailey's reminder of who had sent David Ffrench to the track.
But he did adopt the suggestion to look on, and there was sufficient
to see.
When Lestrange came into his camp for oil and gasolene, near eight
o'clock, Dick seized the brief halt, the first in three hours.
"Emily's up in the stand," he announced. "Send her a word, old man;
and don't get reckless in front of her."
"Emily?" echoed Lestrange, too weary for astonishment. "Give me a
pencil. No, I can't take off my gauntlet; it's glued fast. I'll
manage. Rupert, go take an hour's rest and send me the other
mechanician."
"I can't get off my car; it's glued fast," Rupert confided, leaning
over the back of the machine to appropriate a sandwich from the basket
a man was carrying to the neighboring camp. "Go on with your
correspondence, dearest."
So resting the card Dick supplied on the steering-wheel, Lestrange
wrote a difficult two lines.
He was out again on the track when Dick brought the message to Emily.
"I just told him you were here, cousin," he whispered at her ear, and
dropped the card in her lap.
"I'll enjoy this more than ever, with you here," she read.
"It's the right place for my girl. I'll give you the cup for
our first dinner table, to-night.
"DAVID."
Emily lifted her face. The tragedy of the scene was gone, Lestrange's
eyes laughed at her out of a mist. The sky was blue, the sunshine
golden; the merry crowds commencing to pour in woke carnival in her
heart.
"He said to tell you the machine was running magnificently,"
supplemented Dick, "and not to insult his veteran reputation by
getting nervous. He's coming by--look."
He was coming by; and, although unable to look toward the grand-stand,
he raised his hand in salute as he passed, to the one he knew was
watching. Emily flushed rosily, her dark eyes warm and shining.
"I can wait," she sighed gratefully. "Dickie, I can wait until it
ends, now."
Dick went back.
The hours passed. One more car went out of the race under the grinding
test; there were the usual incidents of blown-out tires and temporary
withdrawals for repairs. Twice Mr. Ffrench sent his partner and Emily
to the restaurant below, tolerating no protests, but he himself never
left his seat. Perfectly composed, his expression perfectly
self-contained, he watched his son.