The representative reporters from the city journals filed in, avidly expectant. With them came two officials of the racing association, and a metallic-eyed man whose plain clothes were contradicted by the badge visible under his coat. There was silent orderliness; the grim significance of the room, the presence of the watchful surgeons, the central figure of the driver so well known to all of those who entered, were subduing to the least sensitive. Nor was the effect less hushing because of that other driver who attended in the background, the strong sunlight shining on his glistening pink garb and still face.
Gerard let fall the hand holding the cigarette, when the company was complete, and slowly turned his brown head on the pillow to face them.
"You newspaper men have been first-class to me for a good while; it's my chance to reciprocate now," he asserted. "Well, I'll give what copy I can. I know you want it, boys—you've often been after me for less."
The familiar gayety rippled above his aching effort of speech, his will locked to composure each rebellious line of expression. No one stirred in the room.
"I wish it were a better yarn. But when two tires blow out at the same time, while a car's turning——"
This time, there was a general sigh of quick-drawn breath. Mr. Rose stood up.
"When two tires let go, at ninety miles an hour, there's apt to be a wreck. I——" his lashes fell wearily. "I couldn't hold the machine to the road. The shock broke my control—there's no one to blame but me——" The cigarette crumpled in his clenching fingers, his straight brows knotted.
"Gerard," burst forth the racing official, excitedly urgent in his suspense. "Your tires wrecked you? That's your last word? Gerard, if you can speak, do!"
The amber eyes re-opened in answer, to meet the fixed gaze of the eager men who waited opposite.
"Yes," gasped Gerard, casually definite. "What else? Corrie, leave me your smokes, they're a better brand——"