"You'd have let me walk?"
"I'd have got into the mechanician's seat and let you drive. Do you suppose I'd have kept the wheel with you in the car? But what you said about my driving made it so no one could rattle me, Mr. Gerard; I am not going out of the race because of that, anyhow."
"Going out of the race? Why, you're running in third place!"
Rose shook his head, his mouth set, holding out two blistered hands and linen-wound arms.
"I've given out," he acknowledged bitterly. "There'll be no finish for my car. I can't hold my wheel without an hour to rest and get these into shape. Kid amateur, all right."
"Where's your alternate driver?"
"He slipped on a greasy bit of grass, ten minutes ago, and sprained his ankle. We're out of it, with third place ours and a perfect car to run."
Gerard looked down the row of illuminated tents to where the pink car stood, palpitating in an aura of its own light, and brought his eyes back to the other man.
"My machine went out of the race, two hours ago, with a broken crankshaft. If you like, I'll be your alternate," he offered.
Incredulous, breathless, Rose stared at him.