"I never read racing news."
"I read ours," said Bailey darkly. "We've been licked often enough by him. And he's straight—he's one of the few men who'll stop at the grand-stand and lose time reporting a smash-up and sending help around. Every man on the track likes Darling Lestrange."
"Likes whom?"
Bailey flushed brick-red.
"I didn't mean to call him that. He signs himself D. Lestrange, and some of them started reading it Darling, joking because he was such a favorite and because they liked him anyhow. It's just a nickname."
Emily laughed out involuntarily, surprised.
"I beg pardon," she at once apologized, "but it sounded so frivolous."
"If you try this man, you had better keep that nickname out of the factory," Mr. Ffrench advised stiffly. "What respect could the workmen feel for a manager with such a title? If possible, you would do well to prevent them from recognizing him as the racing driver."
Bailey, who had risen at the chime of a clock, halted amazed.
