"Five toes?" said Mary Jane, horrified now that she'd said anything at all.
"Aye," said Worm. "He lost his right foot about fifteen years ago. But it doesn't trouble his driving, and he walks without a limp. I've no doot it took him a lot of practice. There was some talk of barring him from racing, but he proved he's as good a driver as men wi' two feet of their own. He has a cupboard full of trophies won all over Europe. But this is the first time he's racing in America."
"You mean he's racing an unknown car on a course he's never seen before and with only one foot?" cried Woody.
"Hoot, mon," said Worm, "I mind the time he climbed the Matterhorn in the avalanche season wi' the same one foot. It comes to me that yon Randy wouldna enjoyed himself half as much if he had both his feet. He's a mon that likes a challenge."
Woody, Mary Jane, and Steve were out at the track early the following morning after a hurried breakfast. Worm and Randy went out in the Black Tiger together, and Woody took Worm's Dodge. They would not see each other until the day's racing was over because Woody and Randy would be in the pit area while they would have to stay behind the low fence of wood slats, called a snow fence, which separated the track from the spectators.
Woody bought a program and found a map of the track on it.
"Boy," he said, "take a gander at that."
The track looked in shape like a wire loop that had been badly mangled. From the starting line, there was about four hundred yards of straightaway. Then a right-angle left turn, followed after two hundred yards by a hairpin bend to the right. There were a series of S-turns, another right angle, and another hairpin, though not as acute as the first. Then a straightaway of about three-quarters of a mile, followed by two more right-angle turns, and so back to the starting position to complete the first lap.
All the turns were numbered on the map and there were ten in all. The track was just under three miles.
"We ought to try to get over to that first hairpin," said Steve. "That's where we'll see the fun. Say," he said turning to a man standing nearby, "how do you get to turn number two?"
"Butcher Bend?" said the stranger laconically. "Right over by that clump of eucalyptus. You'd better hurry, though, if you want to get a good place."
They had hardly got there when a loud-speaker over their heads said in a peculiarly flat and distorted voice, "Attention all drivers and pit crews. There'll be a drivers' meeting by the judges' stand in ten minutes. All those competing in the first event for cars under fifteen hundred cc.'s please have somebody there. You must get this briefing to learn the rules of the course." The message was repeated.
"What's that for?" Mary Jane asked.
"To tell them about the flags and the rules of racing," replied Steve. "For instance, if a flagman waves a black flag to a driver, it means that he has to go round to the pit area and get out of the race."
"Why?" asked Mary Jane.
"Any number of reasons," said Steve. "His car might be leaking gas on the track, which is real dangerous, or he might be driving so badly as to be a danger to the other drivers, or he might have deliberately fouled somebody. You can't just get into one of these cars and drive it as fast as you want without regard for anybody else. It's a real risky business, and even with every safety precaution that can be taken, fellows crack up."
"I thought everybody just went as hard as they could go," said Mary Jane.
"They do. But they've got to do it with judgment. Wild stuff is strictly out."
The loud-speaker started to blat again:
"Today," the announcer said, "we have an event of very great importance to West Coast racing and to road racing in the United States. A new Italian car of revolutionary design will make its first appearance on this track this morning. This is the first time that this car, the Black Tiger, has ever been raced anywhere in the world. And it's being driven by none other than the owner, Captain Jimmy Randolph, who has competed in three of the Le Mans events in France and is one of Europe's best drivers. Randy, how about saying a word to the folks?"
"Hush," said Mary Jane, though this was quite unnecessary, for both Woody and Steve were standing stock-still listening.
"I'm very happy to be here," said Randy over the loud-speaker. "This is a really sporting course, and I'm looking forward to an enjoyable day."
"What do you think of your chances in the Black Tiger?" the announcer asked.
"We'll know more about them at the end of the race than we do now before it's started," Randy replied. "I'm up against some hot competition, and whatever driver wins will deserve everybody's respect. There are eighteen other cars in the event—Jags, Ferraris, Maseratis, and a couple of Thunderbirds—and I'm going to have to keep my eye on every one of them."
"Any particular driver you're worried about?"
"At this point, I'm worried about them all," replied Randy. "Some of the boys have raced against me at Le Mans. Tom Wisdom in Ferrari number four is tops, and so is Kurt Kreuger in his Jag—I think it's number six. But as I say, I'll have to keep my eye on everybody. They're all tiptop men driving fine cars."
"Isn't he wonderful?" said Mary Jane, and Steve and Woody nodded their agreement.
A few minutes later there came another announcement over the loud-speaker. "Attention in the spectator area," the announcer said. "Will Woody Hartford—that's W-o-o-d-y H-a-r-t-f-o-r-d—report immediately to gate three? Woody Hartford to gate three immediately."
"That's me," said Woody in astonishment.
"That's right," said Steve. "Get moving."
"Where's gate three?" Woody asked.
"You, Woody Hartford?" a flagman who was standing on the track within earshot asked.
"That's right."
"O.K., get over the fence and cross the track. Gate three's right over there where all those cars are parked. By the big white building. Hustle, because they're going to close the track in a couple of minutes."
Woody scrambled over the fence and ran toward the white building as fast as he could. At gate three he found Worm waiting for him and very excited.
"Here," said Worm. "Sign this. It means that if you get hit or get hurt, you can't sue the race track or anybody." He put a mimeographed form before Woody. "Randy's other pit man didn't turn up," said Worm, "and I can no handle everything meself. We've got forty minutes tae get the Black Tiger ready, and because it's a new car, the officials are letting ye join the pit crew. Hurry, mon. Did they never teach ye tae sign yere name in thot silly school ye went tae?"
Woody scrawled his signature in indelible pencil on the bottom of the form, and the two sprinted over to the pit area where Randy stood, looking worried, beside the Black Tiger.
"Awfully glad you were able to come," he said. "Tape up my headlights for me, like a good lad." He threw Woody a roll of adhesive tape.
Woody glanced at the headlights of the Jag in the adjoining pit. They were covered completely with strips of adhesive tape. He guessed the reason was to prevent them being pitted by gravel flung up by the rear wheels of cars ahead in the race. He taped the Black Tiger's headlights in a similar way.
"Get the fenders now," said Worm, and Woody put overlapping strips of adhesive over the fore part of the Tiger's fenders.
"Can you help adjust these rear-vision mirrors?" said Randy when he was finished. "Just move them the way I tell you." The Black Tiger had three rear-vision mirrors, one on each front fender and one on the dashboard in front of the driver. They had to be adjusted so that by looking into them Randy could see the area around his two rear fenders and behind him.
By this time the first race for cars under fifteen hundred cc.'s had started. But Woody was so busy with the Black Tiger that he saw very little of it. Eventually all was done and only just in time.
"Cars for event number two, report to the starting grid," the loud-speaker instructed.
"That's us," said Randy. "Coming?"
Worm pushed Woody into the seat beside Randy and climbed up on the deck behind the cockpit. From all around there rose a series of roars as Jags, Ferraris, Maseratis, Allards, and Thunderbirds eased out of their pits and slid slowly toward the starting area. The noise was deafening and exciting beyond expression. The cars seemed to be challenging each other, showing their strength like gladiators about to meet in a Roman arena.
In this mass of automobiles, some snorting, some purring, some roaring as drivers sought to keep spark plugs from fouling, the Black Tiger slid forward through the pits out to the paved court that formed the starting area. Positions for the start of the race had already been allocated. Only three cars could be placed abreast on the actual starting line. The others were lined up three abreast behind them. The Black Tiger's position was in the fourth row of cars, with a cloud of Jags and Ferraris ahead of her.
Randy, when he had the Tiger in position, buckled the strap of his crash helmet under his chin and pulled on a pair of pigskin gloves. The noise around was deafening. Woody was surprised to find himself trembling slightly with excitement. But Randy seemed completely calm. Worm walked around the Tiger making a last-minute inspection of the tires.
He nodded his head, finding them satisfactory. Woody was watching Randy, who had taken a casual look around at the cars behind and the cars ahead. Randy now cramped his front wheels hard over to the right, but did it without attracting attention. He caught Worm's eye, and Worm gave him a quick wink.
"Good luck," said Worm. Randy waved, and Worm signaled to Woody to leave the starting area and get themselves a position by the racing pits, which were right opposite the starting line.
"Why did he cramp his front wheels around?" Woody asked.
"Just as soon as they drop the starting flag," Worm replied, "he'll be around that Jag in front of him and have only six cars ahead instead of nine. That is, if he's lucky."
Everything now became swiftly quiet. There was no more roaring from the pack of cars, whose drivers were tensely watching the starter. He, a rubber ball of a man, dressed in white pants with a multicolored shirt of violent pattern, was standing to one side with his back to the drivers. He had a flag in his hand and was casually scratching beneath his chin with the end of the stick. Suddenly he leaped into the air, his two hands above his head, and brought the flag down like a comic ballet dancer.
With a roar, almost of rage, the pack of cars leaped forward. Woody saw five of them flash by so fast that he couldn't even get a glimpse of the numbers, and then the Black Tiger sprang by screaming down to the right-angle bend a quarter of a mile away.
"Och, he's a bonny driver," said Worm, his face glistening with excitement. "Did ye see that, mon? They had him positioned eleventh, and he lopped off three cars right at the start." Woody was hardly listening. He was watching the Tiger, which flung after the cars ahead like a hound after deer. The first eight were in a bunch when they reached the corner. There were a series of roars as they changed down to negotiate the turn, and then they were gone, screaming up to the hairpin that lay ahead.
"Yon Butcher Bend is a bad one," said Worm. "I'm hoping he'll use mair care than courage in getting roond it."
Neither could see anything of the race now, though they could hear the roaring of the engines and the squeal of tires as the pack slid around the first hairpin.
"They'll be here in a minute," said Worm. "Count the cars ahead of the Tiger."
It seemed less than a minute before the first of the cars appeared. It was Tom Wisdom, driving his big red Ferrari, with the figure 4 making a white splash on its side. After him, hardly a quarter length behind, came Kurt Kreuger in a blue Jag. Then a Thunderbird, number eleven, an Allard, another Jag, and then the Black Tiger.
"Sixth," announced Worm. "Nae! Wait a minute! Watch this!"
The Jag ahead of Randy zipped by them with the Tiger on her tail. Then the driver changed down to get ready for the right-angle bend ahead. In that second, Randy slapped his foot down hard on the accelerator. There was a cry of "Oooo" from the spectators, and the Tiger flashed past the Jag.
"He's going too fast for that corner," said Worm. "He'll roll her over."
Everybody strained forward to see what would happen. The Tiger snarled and swerved wide almost to the edge of the track. Then with a deep-throated roar, she clawed around the corner, her rear wheels skidding, and was off down the straightaway like a bolt.
"Did you see that?" someone next to Woody called excitedly. "He took the Jag and didn't change down until he was on the fifty-yard mark."
"Then he changed down twice in two seconds," said another.
"Brother, he'll strip a few gears if he keeps that up," said a third.
"Not that guy," put in another. "He's a real driver. Whenhegets into a car, he's part of the engine."
The voice of the announcer on the loud-speaker cut in, "Captain Randolph in the new Italian car, the Black Tiger, is now fourth," he said. "Ahead are Tom Wisdom in number four, a Ferrari; Kurt Kreuger, second, in his XK140 Jag; Pete Nevins in a blue Ferrari, number thirteen; and then Randolph. Randolph passed two cars ahead of him on two bends. The first on the right-angle bend, turn number one, right after the start-finish line, and the second, Fred Manini's Thunderbird on the hairpin. He's driving beautifully and is out to win. This looks like the battle of the day. The Black Tiger corners like a cat. But the Ferraris seem to be a match for her. It's nip and tuck all the way. This is a real driver's race."
The loud-speaker cut off, and Woody heard a cheer from the far side of the track.
"The Black Tiger just took Nevin's Ferrari on the S-bends," the announcer said. "Randolph is now third, battling to get ahead of Kreuger in his XK140 Jag. This is the same car that did so well in the last Le Mans race."
"Here they come again," cried Worm.
From far down the track three black bullets hurtled toward them. Wisdom was in the lead, about a car length ahead, with Kreuger behind him and then the Black Tiger. They swept by with a roar. The Tiger's front wheels were abreast of the rear wheels of the Jag. Randy was sitting back easily in his seat, as cool as if he were out for a Sunday afternoon drive. There was a slight smile on his face and not a suggestion of tenseness anywhere about him. Suddenly Randy changed down and dropped for a second behind the Jag. Then the Black Tiger leaped forward, and the two of them went into the corner abreast. Woody saw the Jag sliding crabwise toward the Tiger and held his breath, for it looked as if it would broadside into her. But the Jag clawed off when there was nothing but the thickness of a coat of paint between them. The two disappeared around the bend in a fury of acceleration, still abreast.
Now he had to await a report on the race through the announcer over the loud-speaker. It was not long in coming.
"Randolph's still fighting to get by Kreuger's XK140," he said. "He nearly made it at the right angle after the start-finish line but got crowded over. At the hairpin he dropped half a length behind. They're shooting the S-bends now neck and neck. Ah. Here it is! Randolph took those S-bends at full bore, pulling ahead of the Jag with inches between them. He must have been doing a hundred and forty. Now he's second with only Wisdom's Ferrari ahead, and battling for the lead."
The next two laps the Ferrari and the Black Tiger passed by in the same position. Wisdom knew all Randy's racing tricks and could anticipate them. The spectators had forgotten the rest of the field, only a few lengths behind, to concentrate on the two lead cars. It became obvious that the Ferrari had a quicker getaway and so could make up distance lost on the corners. But at every bend in the course, the Black Tiger was on her tail, worrying her, seeking for an opening to get through and take the lead.
Suddenly there was a roar from the crowd in the direction of Butcher's Bend. Woody looking over there could see what looked like a small cloud of smoke arising. Somebody spoke hurriedly to the flagman in front of him, and he stepped out onto the course waving a yellow flag.
"What's the matter?" Woody asked, turning to Worm.
"Accident," Worm shouted. "Somebody's hurt."
An ambulance, its siren screaming, sped down the track in the direction of Butcher Bend. It was back in a few minutes, drove through the pit area and out onto the main road. Then the announcer said over the loud-speaker, "We regret to say there has been an accident at turn number two. The Black Tiger, driven by Captain Randolph, went out of control, and Captain Randolph has been taken to the hospital. It is not thought that he is badly hurt. We'll let you know his condition as soon as we get a report—"
Woody didn't wait to hear any more.
"Let's go," he said to Worm and jumped into the Dodge.
In all its life, Worm's venerable Dodge had never done more than thirty-five miles an hour, but on the trip to the San Diego General Hospital, it made forty-five, protesting at every revolution of its engine.
When they got there, Woody had some difficulty convincing the receptionist they should be allowed to see Randy. "I can't do anything without the surgeon's permission," she said quietly though not without sympathy.
"Surgeon," cried Woody, "is it that bad?"
The receptionist gave a ghost of a smile. "Surgeons treat cuts as well as fractures and broken heads," she said. "You'll have to wait."
They waited an agonizing hour without any news at all. Then a young doctor came through, and the receptionist left her desk and spoke to him. The doctor came over to them.
"Are you relatives of Captain Randolph?" he asked.
"Not relatives. Friends," said Woody.
"We're his pit crew," said Worm. "We service his car when he's racing."
"I see," said the surgeon. "Well, he says he has a daughter at this address. He'd like to see her. She's in San Diego apparently. Can one of you go and get her?"
"I'll go," said Woody. "How is he, doc? Is he badly hurt?"
"Well," said the doctor, "he's a lucky man. It's lucky for instance that he has an artificial foot. That was crushed. Had it been his real foot, the bone would have been splintered so badly we might have had to amputate at the knee. As it is, he has a leg fracture, a dislocated shoulder, and bad burns on the torso and thighs. He's a remarkable man. He should be suffering from shock and in need of sedatives. But his main concern is his car. Otherwise he's quite calm, and his mind is clear."
"Gee," said Woody. "I'm sure glad to hear it isn't too serious."
The doctor laughed. "If it happened to me, I'd call it very serious and give up racing for the rest of my life. Here's the address. He's anxious to see his daughter so she doesn't get any false reports on his condition."
Woody took the slip of paper, which had the address of an apartment house on Front Street in San Diego. Without asking Worm, he got into the Dodge and drove over there. On the way over, he kept thinking about the best way to break the news. When he arrived, he still had not reached a formula. He pressed the bell and when the door opened it is probable that even if Woody had memorized what to say, he would have forgotten it.
The girl who opened the door was about his age. She had red hair that looked like burnished copper. It was cut in a page boy and came down to her shoulders. She wore a black turtle-neck sweater and a skirt of a dark green material that spread out like a ballerina's from a tiny waist. Her skin was milk white, and her eyes had a trace of a teasing look in them.
"Yes," she said politely when she opened the door.
"Are you Miss Randolph?" Woody asked.
"Yes."
"I'm Woody Hartford. I was working in the pit with your father at the races today."
"Oh," she said. Now Woody was stuck. He could find no appropriate words that would not alarm her. He decided to plunge on.
"He's not badly hurt, but he's been in an accident," Woody said. "The Black Tiger turned over and he's at the hospital and—"
"Wait until I get my coat," the girl interrupted. She dashed into the apartment and was back in a second, struggling into a white lamb's-wool half coat. She pushed past him and down the stairs with Woody in pursuit.
"There's my car," he said pointing to the Dodge.
The girl gave it a brief glance. "We'll take mine," she said and ran to a red MG parked by the curb. Woody had just time to get in before she had started it and was speeding down the streets. Woody was surprised at the MG's acceleration and cornering ability. On the way to the hospital he told the girl all he knew of Randy's injuries. Sitting next to her, he realized that she was even prettier than he had thought at first glance. And she drove like a wizard, snaking surely through the traffic without a second's indecision.
At the hospital she was quickly admitted to the ward. Woody followed her to the door with Worm. He hadn't been invited but realized this was a good chance to find out how Randy really was and talk to him.
"Hello, Daddy," said the girl rushing through the door to her father's bed.
"Hi, Rocky," he replied. "Had a little bad luck. The Tiger went out of control and turned over on me, and I busted my leg. Got a few scratches as well but nothing much." The words were silently contradicted by the bandages that swathed the side of his head. He looked up and saw Woody and Worm standing at the door.
"There's my pit crew," he said. "Come on in. Have you met my daughter, Rocky?"
He introduced them, and Rocky explained that Woody had brought her over.
"What happened to the car?" Woody asked. "How did it get out of control?"
"Hard to say," replied Randy. "She behaved beautifully right up to the time of the accident. I'd just taken that right-angle turn right after the start-finish line and was going into the hairpin. I had an overlap on Tom in the Ferrari, and the steering went. Wheel just spun around loose in my hand. Luckily I was on the outside, otherwise I'd have hit the Ferrari. Instead I sideswiped a stack of hay bales and turned over. I hope the Tiger isn't too badly damaged. There was a small fire, but they put that out in a hurry."
Nobody said anything for a while. Then Randy said, "She handled like a dream. She's a beautiful car—the best I've ever driven. I don't see how she can fail to beat any competition that's offered her."
In all this time Worm had said nothing. Now, speaking very slowly, he said, "If ye've any sense in yere head, ye'll forget all aboot the Black Tiger and racing. This is the second time for ye. Yere luck is going tae run oot one of these days." But Randy only laughed.
A nurse came in then and shooed them all out of the room. Down in the lobby, Steve and Mary Jane were waiting. They'd come over after the accident, which had taken place within a hundred feet of where they were standing.
"Man," said Steve. "He's lucky to be alive. The Tiger rolled over on him twice and then caught fire. They had to put out the fire to get at him."
Mary Jane gave Woody a questioning look. "Oh," said Woody, "pardon me. I'd like you to meet Randy's daughter, Rocky." He made the introductions all around. It seemed to him that Mary Jane was a little cool with her "How do you do?" but Rocky didn't notice it.
She turned to Woody and said, "If you wish I'll drive you back so you can pick up your car. It was really sweet of you to come for me, and I'm very grateful."
"It was nothing," said Woody. He could feel himself blushing and was angry at his reaction.
"Well," said Rocky, "shall we go? I'm going to come back here and see whether I can talk them into letting me stay in Daddy's room. He'll need company, and maybe I can at least spend the night here."
The two went out to the MG together, and Woody felt the same sort of lowering of the temperature he had experienced when he called Mary Jane to say that he couldn't take her out because he'd spent his money on Cindy Lou.
When he got back, Mary Jane had gone to the motel with Steve, but Worm was waiting for him.
"We'll have tae go oot and get the Black Tiger," he said. "I've had a word wi' Randy aboot it, and he wants it towed to my garage. We'll take a look at it and see if it can be towed behind the Dodge."
They drove back to Torrey Pines then and found the Black Tiger had been taken to a service shed in the back of the pit area. Worm jacked her up and crawled underneath to inspect the steering linkage. He was there ten minutes, and when he came out he had a piece of shiny metal shaped like a large marble in his hand.
"Steering knuckle," he said. "Sheered clean through."
Woody stared at it. He'd never known of a steering knuckle breaking before. It might happen on an old car, but hardly on a new one.
"How could that have happened?" he asked.
Worm shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Car may have been dropped in shipping and yon knuckle slightly fractured. But there's some cars, laddie, that are just not built tae drive. They're man-killers. And it comes tae me noo that this is one of them."
Woody recalled the time he'd seen the Black Tiger in Worm's garage under the electric lights. There had been something menacing about it then.
"Horseradish," he said. "A car's a car. They haven't any feelings of their own."
"Maybe not," said Worm. "Yet I've known cars in my day that were never driven but they hurt or killed somebody." He looked almost with malevolence at the Black Tiger. "I'm wishing Randy had wrecked ye all together," he said with surprising feeling.
It was a month before Randy was able to get up to Hermosa Beach to see Worm and find out for himself what had been done on the Black Tiger. In that time, Woody had been down to San Diego twice to see him, and had seen quite a bit of Rocky too. In fact, he'd seen enough of her to become aware that Mary Jane, despite an elaborate unconcern, didn't approve of their meetings at all. He tried once to explain that since Rocky was Randy's daughter, he was likely to see her as well as her father when he went to San Diego, and that was all there was to it.
"You don't have to go driving around the city in that midget car of hers," Mary Jane said.
"It's a full-size MG TF," Woody said. "And if I get half a chance I'm going to race it."
"Why doesn't she race it herself?" countered Mary Jane.
"She's going to, in the women's races. But she said she'd let me drive it at Hansen Dam."
"Woody Hartford," said Mary Jane. "If you drive that car in a race, you can say good-by to me. I don't ever want to see you again."
Woody was thinking over this ultimatum when Randy came hobbling into the garage on crutches, with Rocky at his side.
"Hello," cried Randy as cheerfully as a wedding guest. "I see you're busy as usual. Where's my old friend Worm?"
"There," said Woody pointing under a big Buick. One thin foot of Worm's showed, revealing cotton socks of a pale lemon color. This foot wiggled a greeting, and Worm's voice came from underneath the automobile. "I'll be oot in a minute," he said. "When I get this bell housing back again."
"Take your time," said Randy. "Just a social call."
Woody grinned across at Rocky. "How's the MG?" he asked.
"Just super," she said smiling back. "All ready for Hansen Dam. I sent in my forms last night. How about you?"
"Well, er," said Woody. "I didn't get around to it yet."
Rocky looked at him out of her teasing, half-mocking eyes. "You'd better hurry," she said. "You've only got two more days. Unless you'd prefer not to race."
"Oh, I want to race all right," said Woody. "I just didn't get around to it, that's all."
"I had her tuned yesterday," Rocky continued. "Purrs like a sewing machine. Daddy says she's in tiptop racing form right now. If you can get off for a minute, why don't you drive her around the block a couple of times? I could come with you." The last sentence was said very casually. But there was no escaping the invitation it contained.
"Gee," said Woody, "we're right in the middle of installing a clutch here. After work, if you're still around, I'd sure like to try her out."
Worm had by now slid from under the Buick. Watching him come out it seemed as if there would never be an end to him. First came two long shins. Then two longer thighs. Then a narrow waist and torso and then a long arm which fluttered upward to grasp the running board of the car. By the time he had completely emerged, Rocky was laughing.
"Do that again, please," she said. "I've never seen so much person come out from under one car before."
"Lassie," said Worm, "the Highland Scots are all big people. It's a short man in the Highlands who doesn't top six feet two inches." He said this solemnly, without anger or humor, as if he were acquainting her with a piece of interesting information of which he was proud.
"How's the Tiger?" asked Randy.
Worm looked at him sourly. "She's fixed oop as much as she's ever likely to be," he replied.
"As much as she's ever likely to be?" repeated Randy puzzled. "Is there something wrong that can't be repaired?"
"Nae," said Worm fishing for a cigarette, for whenever he got out from under a car, he saluted his liberation by lighting one. "There's naething that can't be repaired. But there's some cars, as ye well know, that hae hidden traps and faults in them. The best mechanic in the world canna find them. And I'm thinking that yon Black Tiger is one of them."
"You mean that there's something basically wrong with her design?" asked Randy.
"Nae," said Worm. "There's naething wrong there. She's as perfect a piece of automobile engineering as you or I are ever likely tae see. Davie would have approved of her entirely. But think of it this way, mon. There's several thousand moving parts in an automobile like that. They're all moving at high speed—faster than an ordinary car—and under peak pressures. Yon car has never been tried on a track before ye took it oot. It's full of bugs ye can no eliminate on a designer's table or in the factory. They have to be found out on the race track. Some cars they never get the bugs out of. They're man-killers from the first time they're driven to the time they give them up. It's my opinion that the Black Tiger is one of them."
Randy listened to all this very seriously. He was looking straight at Worm and never took his eyes off him while the latter was talking.
When he had finished he said, "This is an old difference between us, Worm. You think that there are certain cars that are man-killers. And I think that there are cars that kill or maim drivers until they've found out how to build them better. That, from my point of view, is one of the objects of racing—to design fast, efficient, safe automobiles. The Black Tiger probably has a few bugs in her. But I think she's the finest designed automobile I've ever seen. I intend to drive her and find out what the bugs are.
"By the way, I wrote the company about that broken steering knuckle. They've replied that they're checking with the shippers. Their only explanation is that the car must have been dropped. The knuckle is made of the finest chrome steel, and they cannot understand how, except through some very heavy blow, it could have sheered off.
"They're going to foot the bill for all the repairs. They are anxious to know whether I'll enter her in the Santa Barbara Road Races in September."
"Ye're daft if ye didn't write an tell them no," said Worm sourly.
Randy laughed—a laugh of almost boyish glee. "Nobody will ever change you, Worm," he said. "Of course I didn't. I wrote and said that the Black Tiger will be at Santa Barbara and I'll be behind her wheel. Furthermore, I hope you and Woody will agree to form my pit crew."
"Och, mon," said Worm desperately, "why do ye ask me?"
"Because you're my friend," said Randy soberly.
"It's because ye're my friend that I dinna want tae be there," replied Worm.
"You'll be there just the same. Won't you?"
"Aye," said Worm with resignation.
The two went over to the Black Tiger.
"Daddy," Rocky said, "if you're going to look over the Tiger, can Woody and I take the MG around the block?" Woody knew that she wasn't really asking her father's permission but was hinting to Worm to release him. Worm took the hint.
"Be back in half an hour," he said. "We've got tae get that clutch in before we close the shop."
When they got into the MG, Woody turned to Rocky and said, "What's with Worm and racing? Why does he seem to be half afraid of it, as if he was always expecting trouble?"
"Didn't he ever tell you?" countered Rocky.
"No. Was he a racing driver once?"
"Yes," Rocky replied. "He and Daddy were great friends. They were the two most promising racing drivers in Europe. Of course this was before I was born. Daddy was about twenty and Worm the same age."
"What happened?" Woody asked.
"I don't think I ought to tell you," Rocky said. "It's Worm's secret, and maybe you really ought to ask him. Though I'd advise waiting until he's ready to tell you. I think he will one day. Here, you take over." She pulled the MG to the curb. Woody climbed out, and she slid over into his seat.
As Woody got back into the MG behind the wheel, he saw the Jacksons' car going by. Mrs. Jackson was driving and Mary Jane was sitting beside her. She stared at him in disbelief and then suddenly turned away and looked straight ahead.
For the next two weeks Woody saw a great deal more of Rocky than he did of Mary Jane. He felt vaguely guilty about it. The business of getting the MG ready for the Hansen Dam races put him constantly in Rocky's company. They went to the tech inspection together, and Woody, with Worm's assistance, remedied the various defects in the MG that the inspectors demanded be repaired. They were minor—a new tire, a stop light that didn't work, some adjustment to the brakes so that all four wheels locked evenly, and one or two other odds and ends.
Woody had to admit to himself that he liked Rocky. As a matter of fact, the more he saw of her and the more he was with her, the more he liked her. But he also liked Mary Jane, and he wondered whether there might not be some character defect in himself, hitherto undetected, because of this. Could a guy be keen on two girls at the same time? He hadn't read much on the subject, but what little he had suggested that this was contrary to human nature. Most fellows seemed to have just one girl. Yet there he was with two and loath to give up either of them.
Rocky had all the things that Mary Jane didn't. She loved cars and would talk about them for hours. She drove like a wizard and was quite skillful when it came to making repairs. As a matter of fact, she knew more about sports cars than Woody did, though she was very tactful at concealing this.
Mary Jane, on the other hand, was more feminine. Maybe she didn't know much about cars and was somewhat averse to them. But she was more of a girl and, indeed, prettier than Rocky. Woody sometimes wished that the two could somehow be combined, for the result would have been ideal for him. Woody would hardly think of taking Rocky to a dance, nor would he think of asking Mary Jane to help take the head off an engine. Combined, he would have a girl who could go dancing and work on cars with him as well.
Steve was not a great help in this dilemma. "What you think you're doing?" he asked. "Getting together a harem?"
"If you want a punch in the nose you came to the right guy," said Woody.
"Who? Me?" said Steve innocently. "Your old pal? All I have is your welfare at heart. Just don't like to see a promising young mechanic getting dame trouble so early in his career." He skipped quickly out of the garage as Woody threw one of Worm's dirtier oil rags at him.
The matter came to a head one evening shortly before the Hansen Dam race when Woody had a date with Mary Jane.
She was tight-lipped through the dinner and Woody was careful not to talk very much about either the race or cars. When they were sitting over a dessert of sherbet, Mary Jane said suddenly, breaking an awkward silence, "Woody, are you going to race at Hansen Dam?"
"Sure," said Woody, pretending to be surprised by the question.
"I suppose Rocky has talked you into it," said Mary Jane.
"No, she didn't," Woody replied. "I'm racing her car. But she didn't do anything to persuade me. I wish I could get you to understand that I just like racing cars. It means a lot to me. It's the one thing that I really like doing."
"If you cared anything about me at all you wouldn't race," Mary Jane said, looking straight into Woody's eyes.
"Gee," said Woody, "this hasn't got anything to do with whether I care for you or not. You know I care for you. It's just that I like racing, that's all. And I've got a swell chance to race Rocky's car—"
"Don't mention that Rocky to me again," Mary Jane flared. "She's just a scalp-hunter. She's out to collect all the scalps she can. And I can see that she's already added yours to her collection." And with that Mary Jane got up and headed for the door.
Woody had a hard time paying the check in time to catch up with her. He tried to explain more to her about racing, but people kept looking at them, and even when he drove her home, he knew that she was not listening to him.
Her parting words were "You can make your choice between Rocky and me. And don't expect me to stand around weeping while you do."
This time Woody got mad.
"There isn't any choice between you and Rocky," he said. "That's just your excuse. The choice is between you and racing. And right now, for your information, Miss Jackson, I'm choosing racing."
With that he slammed the door of the car and drove off. He hadn't gone more than a quarter of a mile before he regretted such an angry parting. He wondered whether he ought not to go back and try to patch things up. But then he recalled how mad Mary Jane had been over the money he spent on his hot rod, Cindy Lou. And at the memory he gritted his teeth and drove on. It was time for a real showdown with Mary Jane, he told himself. She would either have to take him, cars and racing, or find some other guy. He wasn't going to give up his chief interest in life for Mary Jane, and he found it selfish of her to ask him to do so.
Early Saturday he was at Hansen Dam with Rocky and Steve. Rocky had raced her MG before and was well known to many of the other drivers and their crews. They drifted over to her pit and were introduced to Steve and Woody. She seemed to be very popular with the racing crowd and held in considerable respect by them. One driver in particular, a long, dark-haired youth named Pete Worth whom Woody had never seen before, seemed exceptionally friendly with Rocky. Woody decided that he didn't like the guy though he couldn't say why.
"Racing today?" Pete asked Rocky when they met.
"Of course," said Rocky. "Second race. Woody's driving the MG in number four."
"That so?" said Pete looking Woody over. "Haven't seen you on any of the tracks before. You from back east?"
"No," said Woody shortly.
"This is his first race," Rocky explained.
"Hope you know the track," said Pete. "Lot of hero drivers have wound up on the hay bales on this one."
"What are you trying to do, scare him?" asked Rocky.
"Me? No. But that number-four turn is a pistol. Well, see you." He turned to Woody. "Good luck," he said.
"Who is he?" Woody asked when the other had gone.
"He races a lot," said Rocky. "He's a first-class driver. If you can keep him in sight, you're doing good. But he likes to go around before the race and find out what kind of competition he's up against. And if he finds a new driver he tries to throw a scare into him. He's only joking, of course, but some of the boys don't like it."
"What kind of a bend is that number four?" asked Woody.
"Oh, it's not really bad," Rocky replied. "Where is that map of the course? Here it is. Look, there's a long run out, about a quarter of a mile, then a full hairpin bend back again. That's number four. The only trouble about it is that it's narrow and it's flat. No camber on it to help you get around. The thing to do is to change down at the hundred-yard mark to second and then gun her around. If you do it right, you can drift around the bend. But if you take it too wide, you'll hit the hay bales on the far side.
"Remember this. If you do leave the track, don't get back into the race until a flagman gives you a high ball. And if you spin out and your engine quits, hold both your hands up over your head as a signal to the other drivers to miss you—that is if they can.
"Tell you what. I know this track pretty well. I've raced on it twice before. The track will be open for practice in a few minutes. Why don't you take the MG and get in five or six laps to familiarize yourself with the turns? It'll help a lot."
"Gee, thanks," said Woody. He climbed into the MG and settled behind the wheel.
"Fasten your safety belt and take this," said Rocky. She handed him a heavy white crash helmet. "Here," she said, "I'll fasten it for you." Her fingers, when they touched the side of his face to fasten the chin strap, seemed cool and comforting.
Woody gave a little wave of his hand, put the racing goggles from his helmet down over his eyes, and drove the MG from the pit to the starting area of the track. A flagman signaled him to stop, and five cars, all in a huddle, zipped past. Then came two more. The flagman waved his arm and Woody swept out onto the track. He revved the MG up, and she took off so fast that he could feel himself pressed back against the seat. There was an angry roar from behind and a Singer stormed past him. Woody started to move over to the left instinctively. In the same instant a Porsche Speedster swept by him on the left.
"Cripes," said Woody to himself, "I'd almost forgotten. They pass any side they want to."
He felt his knees shaking a little from nervousness, and his hands were a little unsteady on the wheel. Then he thought of Rocky watching him, changed from second to third and third to high and blasted down the track after the two cars.
There was a corner in front of him before he realized it. It seemed to be hurled out of space toward him. He dropped down into third, revving up for a second in neutral. He heard a tire scream as he pulled the steering wheel over to the left. The MG picked up a rear wheel skid, careened over to her right a little, scrabbled around the corner, and was off again. But Woody had hardly time to congratulate himself before there was another bend ahead. Again he changed down, braking hard to do so. He turned the wheel to the right, hit the accelerator, and with a car on either side of him, skated, his rear wheel protesting, round the bend.
"So that's how it's done," he said. "You slam on the brakes, change down, rev her hard, pick up a rear wheel skid, and get around." He began to feel a little more confident.
His confidence was nearly wrecked, however, when he came to bend number four. A series of signs before it marked off the distances from the hairpin; two hundred yards, one hundred yards, and fifty yards. He remembered Rocky's advice and changed down at a hundred. But he was still going too fast when he entered the hairpin. He picked up a four-wheel drift, and the steering wheel spun around crazily between his hands. Woody hit the accelerator hard three or four times and turned the steering wheel in the direction in which he was skidding. A monument of hay bales, stacked around a concrete telephone pole, loomed before him. Then they flew past, the steering wheel steadied, and he was off down the straight again.
He made five laps before he decided that he was at all familiar with the course.
"You did swell," said Steve when he got back to the pits. "But, boy, for a moment I thought you were going to wind up among the hay bales."
"Didn't you tell me that you'd never raced before?" Rocky asked.
"That's right," said Woody.
"Well, it's hard to believe," she replied. "A lot of drivers I know wouldn't have got out of that four-wheel skid. If Daddy had seen that, he'd have said you didn't have to learn to drive. You were born knowing how."
"Thanks," said Woody and he could feel himself blush.
"The track is now closed," said the announcer over the loud-speaker. "Cars for the first event please come to the starting grid."
The first event was for the big cars—three thousand cc.'s and over. By common consent the three watched it from the start-finish line where they also had a fair view of what was happening at turn number one. Rocky, indeed, went out onto the starting grid to talk to some of the drivers who were friends of her father. Tom Wisdom was there in his Ferrari, and Woody could see him talking seriously to Rocky. He guessed he was asking her about Randy.
"Is this big stuff much tougher to handle than the MG's?" Woody asked when she returned.
"Some people say so. But Daddy says no. He says although they are faster and heavier, they are also more easily controlled than the light cars. Of course, a Ferrari is a lot more fun to drive than an MG. They average about a hundred and twenty around the track, including the hairpins and other bends, while an MG is doing super if it can average seventy. I think it's just a matter of instinct and experience. And I can't say which is the most important. You can't do it all on instinct. And you can't do it all on experience either. Some of the top drivers are those who have been racing the shortest while."
They only watched the first half-dozen laps of the first race because Rocky had to get ready for her turn, which followed immediately. Tom Wisdom won, and he was over in Rocky's pit just as she was ready to leave for the starting area.
"Congratulations," said Rocky holding out a slim hand to him.
"Thanks," said Tom. "Good luck, kid. I came to tell you there's a little oil right as you go into bend three. Not much. Nothing to worry about. But I just didn't want you sharing the same ward with Randy."
"Oh, he's out of the hospital now," said Rocky. "But thanks all the same. I'll take it easy."
Steve meanwhile had climbed into the driver's seat beside Rocky.
"Pile on in if you're coming," he said, leaving Woody to climb on the back. Tom swung a leg over the side and crouched down beside him.
"You driving today too?" he asked.
"Yes," yelled Woody over the roar of the engine.
"Saw you during the practice lap," said Tom. "Nice bit of work on that hairpin. Driven much before?" Woody didn't think he heard his reply.
There were eighteen cars in the race, and Rocky had drawn the ninth position in the starting line-up. Ahead of her were five MG's, two Singers, and a Porsche.
Rocky seemed completely calm as she did up her chin strap and pulled on her racing gloves. Woody wondered whether the calm was all pretense, whether she didn't feel waves of anxiety going up and down her spine, and whether her knees weren't trembling a little.
"Good luck, Rocky," he said as they left the starting area. The smile she gave him was not the least bit strained. It was eager, and her eyes danced with excitement. In Woody's opinion, she was looking forward eagerly to the race and had no qualms about it.
"Thanks," Rocky replied. "This is going to be lots of fun." She looked around at the cars ahead, behind, and on either side of her, waved to one or two of the other drivers, and seemed in every way completely relaxed.
Back in the racing pits, Woody said to Steve, "Rocky doesn't seem a bit nervous."
Tom, who overheard the remark, smiled.
"She and her father have nerves of steel," he said. "Just when other people begin to get jittery, they begin to feel cool. I've been driving fifteen years now. And I can tell you there hasn't been a race yet that I didn't heartily wish myself somewhere else a few minutes before the starter brought down his flag. There they are! They're off!"
A swarm of cars roared by them, and Woody hardly caught a glimpse of the big five on Rocky's MG before it had flashed by.
Woody wished he could get over to the hairpin to see how Rocky handled it. But he was compelled to stay in the racing pits in case the car developed any trouble. He was able to see only snatches of the race as the cars passed by the start-finish line at the end of each lap. The rest, however, he followed through the announcer on the loud-speaker. He confined his comments for the first four laps to the Porsche and another MG, number fourteen, which had started a battle for leadership at once. But by the end of the sixth lap, Rocky had come up to fifth place and was fighting it out with a Singer ahead of her. Woody saw the two speed by, and they were almost abreast at the bend. But the Singer had the inside track and was the first around the bend.
The announcer now was beginning to take some notice of Rocky. "Keep your eyes on Rocky Randolph in car number five," he said. "Miss Randolph is the daughter of Captain Jim Randolph, one of the great sports car racers of the day. She is driving an MG TF and doing a magnificent job of it. Those who say that driving ability isn't inherited may think differently after watching her. She and a Singer, number twenty-two, are going into the hairpin together. The Singer has the inside track. Boy! Look at that. The Singer, driven by Miss Simmons of San Diego, took the hairpin a little wide, skidded to the far side, and Randy slipped through the gap. She's now ahead—fourth in the race and overhauling the Porsche in front of her."
"Here they come," said Steve excitedly. "There's the first MG, the Porsche—and there's Rocky—third."
The announcer picked up the rest of the lap for them. Rocky was having a hard time getting by the Porsche. She could corner better, but the Porsche had more acceleration on the straightaway. She remained in third place for the next two laps, and then the announcer said that she had dropped back to fourth.
"Must be having some trouble," said Tom. They waited anxiously. The first MG passed, then the Porsche, a Singer, then two more MG's, and finally Rocky came almost crawling down the track.
She steered into the racing pits, and Woody saw at a glance that her right-hand rear tire was almost flat.
Nobody said a word. Steve had the jack out and the rear of the MG off the ground in almost the time it takes to describe it. In the meantime Woody had taken off the flanged racing hub that held the wheel in place. It was the work of less than a minute to remove the wheel and put on the spare, and Rocky was back in the race in three minutes. But in that three minutes, all the other cars had gained a lap on her. Try as she would there wasn't time to make it up and get back into the lead again. She did make up half a lap, but the checkered finish flag had fallen before she could improve her position.
"Tough luck," said Woody when she drove back into the pit. "You were doing swell."
Rocky's eyes were still bright with excitement. "It was wonderful," she said. "I haven't had so much fun since the last time I raced. You boys did a terrific job changing that wheel. Only lost a lap. Could easily have lost two if you'd bungled it." Her smile was full of appreciation.
There was time, in the interval provided by the third race, to check the MG over. Woody took it down to the gas truck to be filled up and to have the oil checked. Rocky reported that the engine had behaved beautifully, so he did nothing there but see that all the spark-plug leads were firm and examine the valve cover for oil leaks. There were none. When he got back to the pits, he found it hard to appear cool. Steve and Rocky were watching the race, and he was glad of that. Rocky had put on such a wonderful performance that for the first time he became aware that he had better do at least as well if he was not to be disgraced in her eyes.
He sat behind the wheel and looked into the rear-vision mirrors. They seemed to be adjusted right. He got out and looked at his tires. Nothing wrong with them. He opened the hood again, took the cap off the distributor, and looked at the points. They were in excellent shape.
"What the heck am I doing?" he said to himself, replacing the cap and shutting the hood firmly.
"Listen, Woody," he told himself, "all you have to do is keep cool and drive as well as you can. No sense taking unnecessary risks. You've got a long time to live. Besides, every other guy in the race is probably just as scared as you are right now."
This thought, comforting for a second, was immediately dispersed by a voice behind him.
"Feeling O.K.?" somebody said, and he spun around startled by the unexpected words. It was Pete Worth, to whom he had been introduced earlier in the day.
"Sure," replied Woody with all the calm that he could summon.
"Just dropped by to make sure you were in the race," Pete said.
"Sure, I'm in the race," said Woody, nettled. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Oh, nothing," said Pete. "I saw that Rocky had some trouble and thought it might keep you out of it." He was quite cool, almost insolently so.
"Just a flat tire," said Woody.
"Ah," said Pete. "Well, lucky it wasn't a front wheel. You can lose control real fast with a front-wheel blowout. See you down there. I'm in ninety-nine—the green TF." He pointed to his car, which was three pit places away. Then he sauntered off. Woody fancied that he was smiling slightly.
"Just trying to throw a scare into me," he said to himself. "Front-wheel blowout! Bet they don't get one of them in a million races." Nonetheless, he went around and inspected the tread on his front tires. It looked good. The left-hand one was a little more worn than the right. But not very much.
"Both tiptop tires," he said to himself. But he wished the left-hand tire didn't show as much wear as it did. Probably the front end was a little out of line. That would account for it. He tried to think of something else.
When Rocky and Steve came back, Woody was looking very solemn.
"You feeling all right?" Rocky asked.
"Sure," said Woody, "raring to go." But actually he felt just like Tom Wisdom did before a race. He wished he was somewhere else.
Woody didn't feel any better when he was down on the starting grid with a school of cars snorting roaring around him. In fact he felt a lot worse, though he would scarcely have believed it was possible to feel worse. Only Steve seemed to notice, however, for both Rocky and Tom who came down to the area with him, were chatting away quite gaily. Woody thought their attitude positively brutal.
"Don't you worry, pal," Steve said. "You'll do all right. Take my word for it. Have you done up your safety belt?" Woody discovered that he hadn't. When he got it buckled, the firm clasp around his waist made him feel better. But it didn't stop the trembling in his knees over which he seemed to have no control at all. He hoped Rocky couldn't see the trembling, but she was busy with Tom and not paying him much attention anyway.
Woody looked around and licked his lips, which were uncomfortably dry. There wasn't much moisture in his mouth, either. He had drawn a place well back in the pack. In fact, out of a field of twenty-one, there were only four cars farther back than his. He got some comfort out of this. There would be some excuse, perhaps, if he didn't show up too well. After all, a guy driving his first real race couldn't be expected to pass seventeen other drivers. He figured that if he passed one or two of them, he'd be doing well.
"Where's that guy Pete Worth?" he asked Steve.
"Oh, he's way up in front. About third or fourth," Steve replied. Well, that was something. He wouldn't have to worry about Pete Worth passing him and maybe rubbing it in afterward.
"Wish I knew the track a little better," he said.
"Listen, pal," said Steve. "All you have to do is watch the guys ahead. Watch how they corner. When you see them jam on the brakes, slow down yourself. When they give her the gun, do the same thing. And if you see a chance to pass, why take it. And remember, pal, we're all pulling for you."
Woody was conscious that Rocky was looking at him. He was also conscious that the corner of his lip was trembling. He could feel the twitch in it, but he hoped it was not visible. To make sure, he put his hand casually up to his mouth.
"Good luck, Woody," Rocky said. "Got to leave you now. Put your foot in it whenever you can. She goes like a bomb."
"See you in about half an hour," said Tom.
Half an hour, Woody thought. This is one half hour I could do without. The three left, and he was now alone with all the other cars around him. An almost lazy silence, disturbed only by the deep beating of the cars around, settled over the starting area. Woody pushed in his clutch and put the gearshift in low. His foot kept trembling on the accelerator so that the note of his engine rose and sank. The driver in the car on his right hand side looked over at him briefly and winked. He knows how I feel anyway, Woody said to himself. All eyes were now on the plump rubber-ball figure of the starter. As usual, he had his back to the drivers. He bent down, seeming to pick up something from the track. Then, almost before Woody realized it, he had leaped into the air and brought down the starting flag.
Woody let out the clutch as if it were burning his foot and jammed down on the accelerator. There was a haze of blue smoke before his windshield, and the whole pack of cars, with him in the middle, shot forward. Two passed by him and cut in front into a space barely big enough to hold them.
"Cripes," said Woody, "that makes me third from last." He changed into second, into third, and into high, and before he knew it, there was a knot of cars braking ahead of him to get around the first bend. How he made it himself he could not recall. He got around in a screech of tires with glimpses out of the tail of his eye of other cars, inches from him, swaying and screeching around with their drivers crouched over their steering wheels.
When he was around the turn, he glanced, by instinct, into his rear-vision mirror. It showed the clear view of the track behind him. There was not a car in sight. He'd dropped to last place in the first three hundred yards.
The thought angered him. It angered him as much as the fact that his legs were still trembling, his mouth as dry as blotting paper, and his hands unsteady on the wheel.
He jammed his foot down on the accelerator and watched the needle of the speedometer creep up to sixty-five, then to seventy, hover there a fraction of a second, and then move on past. He grinned as he saw he was steadily overhauling two cars ahead. The stop light on one of them flashed red. Ahead were a series of S-bends. Woody remembered them from his trial runs around the track. He glanced at his speedometer. Seventy-two.
"O.K., brother," he said, "you're going too fast. But you just might make it." He entered the first S-bend abreast of the Singer that had been ahead of him. He left him behind as if the Singer were standing still. But when he brought the steering wheel over to the right for the next turn, the MG seemed to lie down on two wheels and started skittering toward a pile of hay bales. There wasn't time to change to a lower gear. Woody took his foot completely off the accelerator, and it seemed for a second as if the car were going to turn over. He was thrown hard against the side and stabbed his foot on the accelerator again. For a second the car teetered. Then the MG recovered and flashed off so close to the bales that he felt a slight thud as his nearside fender tipped the edge of one of them.
Ahead now lay two more cars. And another bend. This time Woody changed down. He revved the engine to a roar in neutral and let the clutch out hard as he slipped the gear lever over into third. The MG jerked forward, and Woody headed for a gap between the two cars in front of him. If the gap remained he could get through. But if it closed he would be flung against one car or the other. He jammed the accelerator down and crept into the gap. His front wheels were level with the driver's seat of the first car and six feet from the rear wheels of the second car.
"Come on, baby," he said and urged the MG to more speed. Slowly he crept abreast of the first MG and was now fully in the gap. The car beside him started to slip behind. Woody felt a tinge of pleasure and triumph. He was now ahead of the first MG but not enough to swing over and pass the second. Suddenly he saw the brake light on the car ahead flash red for a second. He was braking for a bend. Woody made a split-second decision. If he braked now, he'd lose the ground he had made. If he speeded up, it would be to go into a corner again faster than he should. He hit the accelerator.
To the spectators it looked as if he were a bolt shot from a crossbow. His car leaped forward swiftly to pass the one ahead right on the curve. There was a cry of "Ooh," which Woody heard clearly above the roar of the engines.
He had to take a chance now. He was going much too fast. He had to step on the brakes and risk being hit by the car behind. It was either that or spin out on the corner. He hit the brakes hard—so hard he could hear his tires scream and feel the back of his car slew around. Then he stepped on the accelerator again and pulled the steering wheel over to the right. For a second it looked as if he was going to spin around completely on the track. Woody did indeed spin around at a right angle. But this served to help him around the corner and when he hit the gas again, he was safely on the straightaway and had passed three of the cars that had passed him in the early seconds of the race.
He hardly saw Rocky, Tom, and Steve as he flashed by the start-finish line. If he stopped for a second to think of what he was doing and the risks he was taking, the trembling and anxiety would return. Instead, he concentrated on urging the MG to even greater efforts.
On the next three laps he passed three more cars. A fourth dropped out for a pit stop, and that put Woody seventh from the end. Since he had started out fourth from last he was doing well. He began to feel much more confident of the MG's ability to stay on the track when other cars would have skidded off into the hay bales, and began also to enjoy himself.
The crisis of the race came at the beginning of the hairpin in the sixth lap. In the five times he had passed it previously he had noticed that there was a tendency for the cars to bunch up there. Everyone slowed down and concentrated more upon getting around the bend than in passing each other on it. There was a straightaway of about a quarter of a mile leading to the hairpin, and Woody tearing down this caught up with a huddle of five cars that had changed down to get around the hairpin. They were all hugging the inside to give themselves a chance to skid wide over to the far side of the track when they got around the hairpin.
Woody decided to reverse this process. He would start into the hairpin from the uncrowded far side of the track and try to cut the MG hard over to the inside when he was around. There would be great risk of a collision in doing this. But there was also the chance of passing two or three cars on the one bend if the maneuver came off.
He approached the hairpin then on the outside and picked a place on the inside as his target, toward which a red Porsche was speeding. If things went well the Porsche would be out of the way when he wanted to get in there. He changed down from fourth to third and third to second, and, with his engine roaring, cut hard over.
Then everything happened at once. There was a scream from behind, and a Singer squeaked by right under his front wheels. It went by as a black blur, and in so doing, trapped the driver of the Porsche so he had to step on his brakes to avoid a collision. The gap that Woody had expected to appear just wasn't there. The Porsche still half filled it. Woody glanced in his rear-vision mirror. There were two cars on his tail, the Porsche dead ahead, the Singer, and another car blocking him on the left.
His only chance was to cut off the track onto the dirt shoulder and make room for himself there. He headed the MG for the shoulder, picked up a skid, slewed sideways, straightened, caught a glimpse of a telephone pole, pulled his steering wheel hard over to the left, hit the gas, and then, to his astonishment, found himself around the hairpin with only the Porsche ahead.
Woody swallowed hard. He must have passed two or three cars on the hairpin. But he had nearly broken his neck doing it. The old nervousness, now forgotten, returned in a flood. His legs began to tremble. The Porsche fled before him down the straightaway. Woody changed up instinctively. But when he came to the next bend, he slowed down well in advance of it, and took the corner cautiously. He was scared, badly scared.
He retained his place but didn't pass anybody on the next three laps. There were only two more to go. But he could not bring himself to take any more risks. The memory of the skid, of being locked in a whirl of cars doing sixty miles an hour around a hairpin, and of the telephone pole hurtling toward him was too fresh in his mind. He made an attempt at passing the Porsche on the S-bends. But whereas previously he would have taken a risk and gone hurtling by, trusting that the MG would stay under control, he now braked and changed down, and the Porsche kept ahead of him without much trouble.
"You've got to snap out of this," he told himself. "You've got to take a couple more chances. Otherwise you'll lose your nerve."
He steeled himself for another try at the hairpin. He forced himself to delay changing down and shot the corner from a wide angle. But just as he thought he was going to get through and felt a tingle of self-confidence returning, a blue MG ahead spun out. One second it was holding the track doggedly before him. The next it gave a sort of lurch or jump and turned broadside on to him. Woody flung his steering wheel over with a cry almost of anguish. His bumper just missed the front wheel of the car, which had turned completely around on the track. In pulling out, he nearly sideswiped another car on his right, and though he stepped on the gas and pulled ahead out of the mess, he was in a panic when he got clear of it.
"I've got to get hold of myself," he kept repeating. "I've got to get over this." But when the race concluded, he had passed no more cars and taken no more chances.
When he pulled up to the pit, Rocky was almost dancing with excitement. "You drove like a wizard," he said. "I went up to the hairpin to watch you. It was terrific. You knocked off three cars on that corner and must have finished about eighth. If you'd had any kind of a position at the start, you'd have won."
Tom and Steve were full of congratulations, too. But their words were empty for Woody. If they knew how he felt, he told himself, they wouldn't be saying what they were. They wouldn't want to have anything to do with him.
For Woody knew that he could have passed at least one or two more cars except for one thing: he was afraid. It wasn't just nerves or anxiety. It was plain cold fear. He'd driven his first race and come out of it a coward.