Chapter 13

The snorting uproar of an arriving racing car crashed across reply.

"Hey, Rosie, did you rope those hams and eggs?" blithely shouted the masked driver, checking his machine. "If you didn't, I'll hook a wheel off your cart to-morrow when I pass you. Why haven't you canned your car yet? Oh, excuse _me_!" perceiving Flavia.

"I roped them, George," assured Corrie. "I'm coming in, now."

Rupert advanced to the front of the Mercury.

"You're giving orders," he signified to his driver. "Do I crank?"

The slight episode was the fitting period to Gerard's argument; he gave Mr. Rose his fine, cool smile to point it.

* * * * *

Frederick the Great did not go home to the pink villa. Not even Flavia could win him from the master he had refound. So it happened that when Gerard went to Corrie, after midnight, he discovered his driver seated beside an open window in the drab, cheerless hotel bedroom, his arms folded on the sill and the dog's head resting on his knee.

"Corrie, do you know it is past twelve o'clock?" he exclaimed, purposely authoritative in spite of his aching pity. "I saw the light over your door and came in to give you what Rupert describes as a calling down. How do you expect to be up fresh and fit for a race at dawn? You go to bed, young man, where I sent you two good hours ago."

"I am going," Corrie replied, without turning. "I'm--all right. Gerard----"

The pause was so long that Gerard came quietly over and put his hand on the other's shoulder, waiting.

"Gerard, do you remember what Rupert once said, in the yacht club where we fed the tramp, about my getting just what I earned and that no luck would soften my brick walls? And I said I was content because I meant to earn what I wanted. I didn't know what I was talking about, but he was right. I'm not complaining, you know; it's fair enough. No, don't answer yet; that isn't what I meant to say."

The dog moved restlessly and whined, nestling closer to the master he loved. Corrie dropped a hand to the animal's neck.

"This good old chap and I will go to bed, presently. We've got to win, to-morrow; it's the last time. Gerard, did you ever read a poem Flavia and I used to like, I wonder? About a man having the strength of ten, because his heart was clean? Do you believe it--I mean, that a man can stand more if he knows he is right inside than if, if he could not think that?"

"Corrie, yes, I do believe it. But there are few stainless Galahads. Strength and rightness do not depend on the past, but the present. The finest strength I have seen, has been in men who, who----"

The intended conclusion died on his lips, before he found words to soften its intrinsically harsh implication. Corrie had turned to him a glance so clear, a face so startling in its white resolution and dignity of fearless candor, that Gerard drew back with a sensation of rebuked presumptuousness. What he had offered as a consolation suddenly loomed as an insult.

"Thank you," said Corrie, quite simply. "You're awfully good to me, Gerard. I don't know why I said all that--I, I guess something slipped. Good night; Fred and I will get some sleep. It's a short night, anyhow."

XVI

THE WHITE ROAD OF HONOR

The ruddy dawn that flushed along the edge of the east illuminated a vast, waiting multitude. For its twelve miles of twisted length, the narrow ribbon of the Cup course was walled in on either side by the massed people and uncounted hundreds of automobiles. The neighboring States, the great cities of New York and Jersey, the countrysides far and near had emptied their motor-car enthusiasts and sport lovers into this strip of Long Island, for to-day. Laughing, eating picnic breakfasts, laying wagers and preparing score-cards, the crowd swayed tiptoe on the keen edge of expectancy; while up and down the course drove and pushed the hurrying hundreds who had not yet found satisfactory place.

As the dawn brightened into full, golden October day, the crush became greater, the haste and anticipation more intense. When a spluttering roar announced one of the arriving racers, the press would open, cheering, to leave his car passage and close in behind him with boisterous comment and criticism.

"That was the six Atlanta, Louis driving, wasn't it, Dick?"

"Rub your eyes, you're asleep yet--that was the Mercury, Rose up. Can't you tell a peach from a lemon? Quit shoving, there!"

"Bet you ten a foreign car wins."

"Take you. It'll be the Bluette or the Mercury. Get back, here comes another. They start in twenty minutes."

Opposite the grand-stand the excitement was greatest, but most orderly. Around the row of repair pits men ran in and out, hovering about their cars with solicitous final attentions and eager encouragement to the smiling drivers. The first machine was already at the starting-line, ready as an arrow on the cord, its pilot smoking a cigarette and chatting indolently with the official starter.

"I drew second for you, last night," Gerard reminded his driver, leaning against the Mercury to look up at him. "Of course, you have your numbers on. You will have to get into line in a moment; don't you want to get out and move about, first? You are going to have six or seven hours' grind."

"I'm rested best right here," responded Corrie placidly. He nestled himself more snugly into his seat and proceeded to fasten on the mask and hood that quenched his blond youth into kinship of blank identity with every other driver on the course. "The crowd is pretty thick; I hope they get the people off."

"The police are clearing the way, now. Corrie----"

The thunderous voice of the car from the next camp interrupted speech as it went past them.

"Good luck, Rosie! I'll leave your rear wheels alone," shouted its driver. "By-by, Allan."

"If he's worried bad about his, I'll lend him a safety-pin from my shirtwaist," drawled Rupert, lounging up, hooking his own mask. "I ain't muck-raking, but he broke his rear axle at Indianapolis, last month, and lost two wheels."

"Corrie," Gerard pursued, "you are to bring yourself back safely. I do not want any victories at the price of your wreck. Remember that I am responsible for your being at this work, and remember Flavia."

"If I wreck my car there won't be _any_ victory," Corrie practically returned. "Besides, I have got Rupert with me to be looked after; if I were making a speed dash by myself I might take a chance or two. You never let me out alone. It's all right. They are signalling."

Rupert sprang into his seat like a rubber ball, bracing one small legging-clad foot for support; not the least of a racing mechanician's arts being that of clinging at all times to his reeling post of duty. Gerard held out his hand for Corrie's parting clasp, then exchanged a warm grip with Rupert. Between the driver and mechanician who were to play the perilous game side by side, there passed no such friendly touch. Gerard never looked at the watching violet-blue eyes of the third man during that farewell ceremony.

"Take care of yourselves," he bade.

"It's a nice morning for a ramble," observed Rupert. "Don't worry, love, we'll be in to tea."

The Mercury Titan rolled into place in the line of flaming, panting machines. The driver of the first car threw away his cigarette and sat up. There was a pause while the group of officials poised, watches in hand, the people rose, then the starter leaned forward and the first car sprang from the line.

Amid the gay tumult of music and cheers, Corrie waited the half-minute interval, his eyes on the counting official, his hand on the lever, until the starter's hearty clap fell on his shoulder with the word:

"Go!"

With an explosive roar the Mercury shot across the line and rushed, gathering speed in long leaps, down the white course. Under the first arched bridge, out of sight it flashed, followed by an answering roar from the countless throats of those between whose dense ranks it sped.

Gerard moved back a few paces. He had become rather pale and grave; his gaze remained fixed on the distant arch through which the Mercury had vanished, nor did he turn to watch the sending away of the other nineteen racers.

The touch laid on his sleeve was feather-light.

"I could not stay away," pleaded Flavia, beside him. "May I watch Corrie with you, Allan?"

He wheeled eagerly, catching her retreating hand before it escaped from his arm.

"I know why Corrie calls you 'Other Fellow,'" he welcomed. "It is because you always know the right thing to do."

They looked at each other in the morning brightness, revelling in the fresh wonder of mutual possession.

"This is hurting you," she grieved. "I saw you before you did me, when the cars started--you were thinking that last year you yourself would have been there."

He checked her with the warm brilliance of his smile.

"Not of myself," he denied. "If there was anything to regret, do you think I could remember it since I have you? No, I was thinking that Corrie is barely twenty, that I had trained him and sent him out there in that machine in defiance of his father's wish--in fact, I believe I had an attack of remorseful panic."

"You did it for Corrie," she gave swift comfort. "Can you suppose that papa and I do not understand that? You could have found drivers already skilled, for your car; instead you troubled to take him and make him what he is now. He is so different from the desperate boy we left, Allan. Whatever happens out there to-day, you have done the best for Corrie."

The feverish activity of the camps was swirling around them. Gerard gently drew the young girl to the place where his private roadster waited, somewhat aside from the centre of action, and put her in the scarlet-cushioned seat. After her paced Corrie's dog and took its place beside her in stately guardianship.

"You can see everything here, and it is not so rough for you," he explained. "Flavia, a year ago I bought this, when I bought the yellow roses on the night before my last drive. Will you let me take off your little glove and put it on your finger, now?"

Her lashes sparkling wet, Flavia bent to him, and in the face of crowds and camps Gerard set his ring on her hand.

Men were leaning over railings, holding ready watches open. At the repair pit next but one to the Mercury's, the mechanics and men in charge had drawn together in whispering groups.

"Car coming!" the word passed suddenly from lip to lip.

On the summit of the white hill a mile distant, a red signal flag went up. A dark shape darted up over the rise, glanced with incredible swiftness down the incline, disappearing momentarily behind the packed angle, then again shot into view and sped past the grand-stand like a humming projectile; the driver a fixed statue of concentration on the road before him, the mechanician half-turned in his seat to watch for cars behind.

The place burst into uproar.

"Number two! Number two first!"

"Mercury leads!"

Horns were blown, handkerchiefs waved, the applause breaking out anew as a second car rushed past in hot pursuit of the flying Mercury.

"Three! Number three!"

"Oh you Bluette!"

"Here comes another--get back!"

Flavia stooped from her seat.

"Allan, that was Corrie--where is the car that started before him?"

"Tire trouble, perhaps. You are trembling, dear! Let my chauffeur take you home and wait quietly there until I bring Corrie to you after the race."

She shook her head.

"No, please no. Here I can see him each lap and know he is safe so far. Let me stay."

Two cars thundered past, struggling desperately for place. The noise of the excited people overwhelmed all conversation and left the two lovers silent. From time to time a telephone bell jingled across the tumult, blue-uniformed messengers hurried here and there. But when the last of twenty cars had passed, the twenty-first not appearing, there fell a lull and men settled back to wait for the second lap.

Five minutes passed, ten. The red flags went up again; two speeding shapes topped the rise and plunged out of sight.

"Two and three!"

"The Bluette--no--Mercury leads still!"

Excitement flared high as the two racers reappeared. But as they swept down the straight stretch, the mechanician of the Mercury raised his arms above his head in warning, the car slackened speed and drew to the side of the course. As the Bluette machine fled past him, Corrie brought his car to a halt opposite the judges' stand, leaning toward the official who sprang to his side.

"The America's off the second bridge--send the ambulance to the road below," he called, his ringing voice penetrating bell-clear through the heavier sounds.

Before his grim message was fairly comprehended, he had slammed into a gear and was off to regain the sacrificed moment.

There was a brief flurry in the official stand. One man seized the telephone while another went slowly to the lost car's camp. From lip to lip the news went.

"Harry was married last week," observed an oil-smeared mechanic, touching his cap to Gerard in going by. "I guess there's no show after that tumble; Rose might as well have saved his time."

"There is more than one prize in a contest," Gerard disagreed, meeting Flavia's awed eyes. "Corrie Rose may win better than a gold cup."

"Corrie----?" she faltered.

"Corrie has given his leading place and one of his hoarded fragments of time--these races are won or lost by scant minutes--for the bare chance that his report might send aid to the injured men a little sooner than if that task were left to the frightened witnesses of the disaster."

Flavia's small head lifted proudly, bright color flashed into the countenance whose loving faith had never failed Corrie in his hours of disgrace.

"I wish papa had seen," she longed wistfully. And after a moment: "You yourself have done the same; he told me so, once. Now you have taught him to do what you never can do any more, poor Allan."

A curious expression crossed Gerard's mobile face; hesitation and doubt blended with a luminous radiance shining from some inward thought that leaped up like a clear flame. He moved as if to speak impulsively, but Flavia had turned to watch the approach of a rushing car, and he remained silent.

In the next hour, the Mercury passed the grand-stand five times; sometimes alone, sometimes the quarry of a coursing group of speed-hounds whose flaming breath was close behind, sometimes itself curving around some slower rival amid the wave-like succession of cheers. The bulletin-board showed Corrie running in third place when he passed for the sixth time, with Rupert stretched along the edge of the car to relieve his cramped limbs in an ease that suggested imminent death by falling.

The seventh time the Mercury did not come around. Gerard, who had been in front, returned to Flavia with his steadying reassurance.

"Tire trouble, no doubt," he told her. "He is due to have some; his luck has been astonishing in escaping it so far. He is driving to win; no car ever held the lead from start to finish."

Flavia folded her hands in her lap, not trusting herself far enough to reply. Gerard studied his watch in silent calculation, as the minutes ticked past.

"It must have been two tires," he at last hazarded. "When one blows out while actually on a turn, the other is almost certain to follow. Of course, they might have engine trouble."

A French car rolled up to its repair pit, stopped, and suddenly burst into flames. There was a wild scramble among its force of attendants, a rush with fire extinguishers and pails of sand. Before the danger was realized, it had ended and the mechanics were at work upon the choked pipe which had sent the car to its camp.

"Oh!" gasped the young girl, rising.

Gerard stopped her, pointing to the white hill. The roar of an approaching car filled the air; as Flavia looked, the Mercury shot past, running faultlessly, but carrying two spare tires where she had started with four.

"They will be in, next lap," Gerard predicted. "Rupert won't want to run with only two extra tires on board, and I don't think Corrie will overrule him."

He went forward to give some directions to prepare for the flying visit, Flavia watching. She made no demand for attention, no betrayal of feminine timidity to hamper this man's world into which she had been brought. Men looked curiously at the delicate, serious girl who sat so quietly in the Mercury camp, but gradually the information crept out that she was Rose's sister and Gerard's fiancee, so that wonder became merely admiration.

True to expectation, the Mercury halted before her repair pit, on the next circuit.

"Cases," commanded Rupert, tersely, out of his seat before the stop. "Move quick! Who's nailed fast now?"

The slur was undeserved; the waiting tires were flung on and secured by hurrying hands.

"Drink it," Gerard ordered, thrusting a cup at Corrie, as that young driver leaned wearily back. "I don't care whether you want it or not."

"It's the people," Corrie explained, his blue eyes seeking Gerard's across the goggles. "I don't mind anything else. They're over the course so you can't see ahead. Jim hit a woman, on the back stretch, as we passed."

He put the heavy china cup to his lips, but dropped it with a crash to seize his levers as Rupert bounded in beside him.

"Have the people cleared off," he petitioned over his shoulder, while sending his car forward.

Gerard went to the judges' stand.

Corrie Rose was not the first or only driver to complain of the packed course. The Mercury had scarcely departed when the Marathon car came in, its experienced and steel-fibred pilot on the brink of nervous breakdown.

"I won't drive if the mob isn't put off the road," he defied his manager. "I've killed a woman back there--do you hear? A _woman_! There are women and kids right against the wheels on the worst turns. Get 'em off!"

The Marathon force flocked around him in consternation, while his manager ran to the judges and the owner of the car implored and adjured the recalcitrant driver to go on without further loss of time. But it was Gerard who saved the situation for his rival.

"It's all right, Jim," he called across, issuing from the official stand and comprehending the deadlock at sight. "You only broke her leg--a telephone report came. Go on; everyone's with you, man!"

The Marathon's mechanician, wise in knowledge of his pilot, at this juncture leaned over and thrust between Jim's lips a lighted cigar.

"Buck up! We're losin'," he urged roughly.

The driver's teeth sullenly clamped shut upon the strong tobacco; he slammed viciously into a gear and hurled his machine down the course before the startled camp realized its victory. The stop had lasted exactly three minutes, but it cost the Marathon its hope of the race.

The morning advanced, gaining in sun-gilt beauty. In the next hour four racers were taken from the contest, three by mechanical difficulties, one as the result of an accident that sent both driver and mechanician to the hospital. The Mercury continued to run steadily and evenly, keeping a consistent pace.

"How much longer?" Flavia anxiously questioned, once. "Do you think everything can stay right to the very end, Allan?"

Gerard laid his warm left hand over her cold one, as it rested on the cushions, his loving eyes caressing her.

"Two hours more, my Flavia. Most surely I believe everything can stay right; why not? Remember Corrie delights in this. He is happier now than when he is what we call at rest. If," again that singular expression of blended shadow and inward illumination rose over his face, "if I were to be made myself and wholly cured, it would not change Corrie's position in Corrie's eyes. I cannot help him there in that hard part, but I have given him a way to forget for a while."

Her soft mouth bent grievedly; Flavia's attention was effectually distracted from contemplation of her brother's bodily peril.

Gerard turned aside. He had heard the reports arrive of one accident after another, he saw driver after driver come in gray-lipped and savage under the strain of racing on the crowded path, and he knew what Flavia did not--that this was proving the most disastrous affair ever held on the Cup course.

"I don't mind risking my own neck, I'm used to that," gritted an old-time comrade to Gerard, during a pause for refilling tanks. "It's the people under foot; ---- them! Haven't they any sense? Jim's Marathon hit a man, ten minutes ago; he's still driving, half crazy, because he can't stop. _Damn_ the country police!"

"Rose----?"

"Rose is changing tires at the Westbury turn. I'm off."

That bit of news spared a bad quarter-hour to the two who loved Corrie.

Gerard was at the front of the camp, watching for his car, when he felt a hand lain on his shoulder.

"Some racer just went off the turnpike into the ditch," Mr. Rose's subdued tones informed him. "Where's Corrie?"

"Safe; changing tires on this side of the turnpike," Gerard gave quick assurance. "It's not he. But this has been a bad day; I'm not surprised that you couldn't keep away from here."

"I couldn't keep away," Mr. Rose assented heavily. He drew out his handkerchief and passed it across his forehead, damp under the line of reddish-gray hair, pushing open his overcoat with the abrupt gesture that was also a habit of his son's. "I've had a hell of an hour where I was, Gerard. This morning I got a letter from my niece, Isabel. It seems she is married and her husband made her write it."

The two men looked fully at each other; some quality in Thomas Rose's expression communicated its white reflection to Gerard's changing face.

"He never did it--Corrie, I mean. Gerard, Isabel Rose threw the wrench that struck you and wrecked your car, last year. He's been shielding her. God, how I've ground it into the boy!"

There was a tall pile of spare tires beside them; on it Gerard put his hand, steadying himself against the shock that was less of surprise than of poignant self-reproach for his own failure to divine this open riddle. In that moment of final understanding, he knew that he had seen the pitiful truth rise to the surface of Corrie's blue eyes a hundred times, and had left its appeal to die out, unanswered.

Far down the course a ripple of cheering started, running nearer in a wave of gathering volume. Out around the curve swooped a gray streak, fled toward the camps, was opposite, and past. The Mercury was unleashed and hunting down its lost lead in the fastest speed of the day.

Mr. Rose brought his eyes from following its flight to meet Gerard's gaze.

"You remember how Isabel nagged him to take her around the race course in his pink machine," he reminded. "I forbade it and thought no more about the thing. Well, she got him alone--you know, I guess, that he was wild with boy's near-love for her and would have let her drag the heart out of his body--and she got his promise to take her around once. She worked the plan all out; Corrie started without his mechanician, and she waited for him a mile down the course, dressed in her riding-habit and wearing a man's cap and motor-mask. She figured that no one would notice her much on the road and Corrie could drop her off after making the circuit, just before he reached the camps, so that he would come in alone as he started and no one would be the wiser. They were just a couple of fool kids on a kid lark."

A yellow car roared to a stop beside them, interrupting clamorously. From his seat its mechanician fell rather than stepped.

"He smashed his wrist cranking her," the driver raged. "Someone else--quick!"

A blue-clad factory mechanic flung himself into the vacant place, bare-headed, without coat or mask.

"Here's my chance!" he exulted. "Go on, I'm it."

The car leaped out, no second wasted in parley. Men gathered up the injured mechanician and hurried him away. Mr. Rose looked on as if at a stage scene which did not interest him, and dully resumed his narrative.