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!"