There was a terrific burst of cheering as he nosed his way into the first three.
“What do you call that?” a mechanic demanded. “Do you call that driving?”
“Do you think he’ll last?” Myra asked.
I turned abruptly and found her at my elbow. Her eyes were fixed on the red car, and I could see she was quivering with excitement.
I said rather bitterly: “Don’t you think you’ll see better if you go to the stand?”
“I want to be with you. I want to see his face if he wins,” she said. “Look, he’s coming round again. He’s getting in front. Really, isn’t he marvellous? Oh, God! Look, they’re trying to squeeze him. They’ve cornered him! Look, look, if he loses his head… he’s finished.”
The three cars flashed past us. George was in the middle. The other two were trying to crowd him, but as he didn’t fall back they were beginning to lose their nerve. There couldn’t have been more than a foot between each car.
I shouted suddenly: “He’ll beat them on the bend. You see, they’ll slow down for the bend. Come on, George, come on, for the love of Mike!”
I was right. Suddenly the red car shot clear and whizzed round the bend at a sickening speed. The others fell back and George was in the lead.
I heard Myra scream suddenly: “Blast him! He’s going to win after all.”