Alan swore; he could not help it.
"Lost by a few seconds," he said.
"I'll have her out," said the driver, who was in the car. By much display of skill and force he backed it out, fixed the steering gear, and said:
"Get in, sir, we'll do it yet. Is that the course?" and he pointed to where the flags waved.
"That's it," said Alan excitedly.
"Is the going on the grass good?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll steer straight for it."
The car bounded over the turf with occasional jumps. Alan held on to the seat, no chance, the race was timed for three-thirty. The horses must be going out. He hoped they would be late. Probably there were many runners, a big field, and the weighing facilities improvised for the occasion would not conduce to rapidity.
Fred Skane took a final sweep over the Park through his glasses. He saw the car, guessed who it was and, calling to Will Kerridge not to go out on to the course for a minute, made a bolt to the entrance gate.