"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.