In perfect control of himself he waited. He had left hysteria behind at Krugs, locked it in the same drawer with the pictures. Now, if never before, he must restrain himself. This day he must become again the old Lescault of the race-course, calm, emotionless. It would be hard at the sight of Giron, but he must be cool. And now he heard the booming of an engine; saw the fires of the Saturn’s exhausts burning the morning; saw the big red car come nearer and nearer, its engine, shutting off, thundering intermittently; saw it advance with its speed throttled, calmly, majestically, as a car of triumph should come; and on the conqueror’s seat sat Giron. Slowly it rolled past the repair trenches, past the Jupiter, the Green Dragon; now it was almost abreast the Mercury, and Lescault, timing his move, scrambled suddenly from the pit, and stood waiting on the road.
That Giron had seen him he knew. Lescault had caught the momentary surprise on his face, the exclamation on his lips. But Giron had swiftly regained his habitual sneer—a sneer that curled his lips as he passed the pit and spit deliberately at the feet of the man below him.
But Lescault’s self-control was superb, and as the Saturn rolled past, he looked after it, smiled, and spoke as he had spoken to the pictures, saying sweetly under his breath:
“Léon Giron, I’ve got you.”
The road was now jammed with masses of shaking, smoking steel. One car followed another, manœuvered for position, choked the course, thickened the bluish haze that, rising from the exhausts, hung almost as motionless as a canopy. Here were the trim-looking Vegas and their French drivers; the Green Dragons, with fierce-looking Italians behind the wheels; a curious cartridge-shaped car entered by an American concern; and the Mercury, called the “Ninety,” because of its tremendous horse-power. Stevenson was at the wheel, and as the grand stand saw his boyish, good-looking face, there were exclamations, then a rattle of applause, growing into steady cheering. Waving his hand and grinning, Stevenson stopped before the pit and, swinging himself over the rail, joined Lescault. He was dressed in white,—suit and skull-piece,—with black gloves, black streamers trailing from his hat, black puttees to his knees, a picturesque figure with his broad chest and shoulders. It had been Lescault’s wish that Stevenson, like the car, be in white and black. He remembered that some of the crusaders of old used to dress that way.
During those last minutes Lescault’s words to Stevenson were as an exhortation. Of technic he could give the boy no more, for his skill had been transmitted completely, astoundingly to him. So now, with his voice lowered, Lescault spoke with all his long-growing, loosened emotions; he impressed upon him that Giron was the one to beat, the only rival he need fear, and commanded him particularly to obey orders, do all that he said, nothing more. And Stevenson, who long ago had caught the fervor of this broken-bodied little Frenchman, felt a fierce yearning to be at the wheel, to be riding the wind, with all others falling as he rode. With an exclamation he sprang from the pit and scrambled into the car. The soul of jean Lescault would be driving the “Ninety” that day.
By this time chaos had opened its gates. Thirty engines were roaring, their steel throats belching. Flame and smoke burst from them. A clamor of machinery smote the ear. Gears rattled shrilly, levers ground and rasped. A stench of oil assailed the nostrils. Now the bluish canopy, thickening, descended as a curtain. Through it Lescault saw the “Ninety” sliding like a great specter, creeping along until its front wheels almost touched the red tanks of the Saturn.
Above the crash of machinery he heard a man’s voice intoning the seconds from one to ten backward. He could not see the man, for the drifting smoke shrouded all; but he listened, and suddenly a voice shouted “Go!” Then came a rattling from the Saturn, a succession of sharp reports, a deep boom, a savage cry from Giron: the Vanderbilt was on.
Three minutes later the white “Ninety” loomed through the smoke, paused on the line, licked at the starter with thin tongues of yellow flame, and, snorting eagerly, crashed away.
Twenty-seven other cars followed, but upon none of them would Lescault deign to glance. With pad and pencil in hand he was busy figuring how fast Stevenson would have to go to lead Giron at the end of the first lap. He knew that the best Giron had done in practice was a circuit of the twenty-mile course in eighteen minutes. This was at the rate of sixty-seven miles an hour. And Lescault grinned, for he had told Stevenson to keep his speedometer at seventy-five miles an hour, gain a two-minute lead at the outset, and confound Giron when the race was only a lap old.