“Obey me!” snapped Lescault, anticipating him. “Remember you’re pledged to that—to carry out my commands. I’ve made you, and you must do just what I say,” he added.
And Stevenson, excited, abashed, regretting his moment of doubt, nodded, and turned to the men who were pouring gasolene down the thirsty throat of the “Ninety.” Then he swung into the seat, threw in his clutch, and went snorting away. Jean Lescault would be obeyed.
As though by telepathy, there came to Giron at this time the same thought that had made Lescault speak his warning. Stevenson must be done away with. As Giron had seen him draw steadily away lap by lap, displaying more and more daring and skill; as he had seen him manœuver as only a master could manœuver, put trick against trick, and, winning, outdo all who would cut him down; as he had watched the big “Ninety” roar by again and again, always about the same time, a “limited” on schedule, the keen Frenchman admitted finally that Stevenson’s was no half-charged sensation, but a decided menace.
Setting his mouth in a thin, cruel line, he made his plans. He would wait for this boy—wait as he had waited for Lescault years before. To him it was only an incident, a sweeping aside of an unforeseen obstacle that had risen between him and victory. That Stevenson might die, that a young and wonderfully brilliant driver might he maimed for life, did not interest him. The boy was in the way. He must go.
Giron waited patiently for the “Ninety” to draw near. Just as he was about to pass he would obey the law of the race—turn out and give room. Then he would veer in suddenly, and, to avoid collision, Stevenson would be forced into the ditch. In just that way he had disposed of Lescault and of others whose names do not matter. Snarling at his mechanician to warn him of the approach of the “Ninety,” Giron drove on. The wait, he felt, would not be long.
Drawn by William H. Foster
“ON IT CAME, FASTER THAN THE WIND” (SEE [PAGE 213])
But for some reason the “Ninety” never overtook him. It hung so close to his rear wheels that Giron could hear the crunch of the tires, the cries of its mechanician; but it came no nearer. Its front wheels were always just out of reach; but it never came farther. Stubbornly and tenaciously it hung like a shadow that would not shorten.
In his desperation Giron began jockeying. Slackening his speed almost imperceptibly, he waited grimly; but the “Ninety” slackened, too. For a moment Giron was puzzled; then, thinking it might be a coincidence, he lowered his pace even more, but the “Ninety” lowered, too. Suddenly suspicious, he tried again; but still the “Ninety” hung back. Then it burst upon Giron amazingly clear. How blind he had been! This was not Stevenson who refused to be tricked; this was no impetuous, lusty boy who couldn’t be tempted into the ditch. This was the cool mind of the master driver, the calm, scheming mind of Lescault—old Lescault back in the pits, the hideous cripple at whom he had spat, now pulling him down at the top of his career.