The Mercury slipped through Mr. Rose's winding drives, plunged into the sandy Long Island road, and sped lurching toward the course.
There was nothing dull or depressing about the starting point, at the Motor Parkway. Before the busy row of repair pits throbbed and panted some of the cars, surrounded by their force of workers; in other camps the men stood, watch in hand, timing the machines already out. Reporters vibrated everywhere; surrounded by an admiring group, two world-famous French and Italian drivers were pitching pennies for the last cigarettes from a box of special brand. Only the tiers of empty seats in the grand-stand and the absence of spectators in fields and parking-spaces distinguished this practice morning from the actual race.
There was a general movement of greeting as the Mercury rolled in and Gerard sprang out at his own camp.
"Where's your pink pet, Allan?" called a driver, from the starting line. "What's up—mornin' air too crude for millionaire kids?"
"He isn't up," was the blithe reply. "Never mind Rose, he's coming; tell me where you got your five-cylinder machine, Jack."
"A late Rose, eh? Oh, I've got six cylinders here, all right, but I daren't run on all of them now for fear my speed would make the rest of you quit, discouraged. I'm goin' to make your yesterday's record look like a last year's timetable, this mornin'."
"You look out that you don't break your neck. Rupert says it's a hoodoo day. We don't want you in the hospital twice this season."
"Is Rupert sad?" questioned the big blonde pilot of the neighboring camp, leaning over the railing.
"I ain't been so near it since I put my foot in a hole and sprained my ankle ten minutes before the start, when I was racing with Darling French at Philadelphia," admitted the mechanician. "It hurt me fierce."
"Your ankle?"