“He’s got a load on, sir,” the mechanic said, shaking his head. “No guy can drive if he’s plastered.”
I quickened my pace. George was already sitting in his car. His reputation had brought him a stiff handicap, and he was going to be the last off the starting post.
I ran up to him. “All right, George?” I asked.
He nodded. “Sure, I’m all right. There’s nothing on four wheels that’s going to catch me today.”
His face was very white and his eyes were glassy. He had certainly been drinking, and he looked completely reckless.
“Don’t take chances,” I said, shaking his hand, “I’ll look after things for you. Good luck, old man.”
The noise of the engine made it difficult for us to hear each other. “Good-bye,” George shouted, “look after my little investors, won’t you?” and at that moment the flag fell and he roared away.
I hurried to the pits and stood near a group of mechanics. They were talking in low voices, but I overheard what they were saying. They all seemed worried about George. “Nearly a whole bottle of Scotch went down his throat,” one of them said; “he must be crazy.”
“Yeah, well, look at him now. Look at the speed he’s going.”
All eyes were on the small red car as it flashed round the course. George had already overtaken three of his competitors, and as he came into the straight he opened up and with a snarling roar the car shot forward. All the other cars had opened up, but the leading cars were slowing down for the bend. George came on, took the bend at full speed, tore up the bank, and for a moment we thought his wheels had left the track, but with a few feet to spare he was down into the straight again.