The Black Tiger

IVES WASHBURN, INC. NEW YORK
Copyright 1956 by Ives Washburn, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or parts thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Dedicated to Bill and Steve Dredge and the happy fraternity of sports-car racing drivers in the United States of America. Also to their hero mechanics.
Also by Patrick O'Connor THE SOCIETY OF FOXES FLIGHT OF THE PEACOCK THE WATERMELON MYSTERY
Woody Hartford, seated upon a four-legged stool of uncertain design, examined the pieces of a carburetor that lay on a bench before him, and contemplated a problem of the nicest delicacy.
The problem had nothing to do with the carburetor. Woody at seventeen could put that back together without even thinking of what he was doing. He'd cleaned and adjusted a score of them since he first started working at McNess Union Service Station, Hermosa Beach, California, two years ago. The problem concerned the matter of whether to spend ten dollars on Cindy Lou or on Mary Jane. It was not one that could be lightly decided.
There were, Woody was dimly aware, certain ethical factors involved. Cindy Lou needed the money spent on her in the worst way. On the other hand, if Mary Jane ever found out about it, she would, in a ladylike manner, raise a great deal of trouble.
Again, if, to avoid strained relations with Mary Jane, Woody spent the money on her, it would be a long time before he would have a ten spot to spend on Cindy Lou.
A guy with a hot rod and thirty bucks a week, Woody said to the float chamber of the carburetor, has no right having a girl friend, too. On the other hand, he added, a guy with a hot rod is going to wind up with a girl friend whether he wants one or not. There's no arguing about that.
He sighed, reached for one of a number of remarkably dirty rags on the workbench, and thrust it into the float chamber of the carburetor. He'd have used a clean rag if one was available. Clean rags were delivered every Monday to the McNess Union Service Station, but Mondays were Woody's days off. When he arrived for work on Tuesday the rags were all uniformly dirty. This was one of the minor oddities about the service station that Woody had long ago ceased to trouble himself over.