For the next month things went smoothly in this fashion, and Woody almost managed to forget about road racing and the unconquered fears with which the whole subject filled him.
Then one day the telephone rang, and when he answered it Rocky was on the line.
"Hi, Woody," she said. "How have you been?"
"Pretty good," Woody replied. "How are things with you?"
"Just fine now that—now that everything's settled. I called you up because I just had some wonderful news. Guess what?"
"What?" said Woody and he felt curiously ill at ease.
"The Italian factory that made the Black Tiger had a representative over here to look at Daddy's car. You know there are only three of them in the world. They were worried about the two accidents"—she hurried over the words—"because they gave the car a bad name. You know people have been saying that the car's a killer, and nobody can be found to drive it. Anyway, they've offered to pay the expenses of repairing the Black Tiger, and they'll provide all the new parts needed and everything if someone will race it again over here."
"Oh," said Woody, trying to keep the dismay out of his voice.
"Daddy really believed in that car," Rocky continued. "He said it was the finest he'd ever seen in all the time he'd been driving. I thought that since you'd worked with him on it that you'd like to know the news right away."
"Gee," said Woody. "I'm sure glad to hear it. Let me know if they find a driver, huh? Maybe Tom Wisdom. He was a friend of your father's."