So they rushed into the straightaway, headed for the grand stand, and came booming and pounding until a report from one of the “Ninety’s” rear tires brought that car to a stop while the red Saturn whirled away in a screen of dust. Stevenson drove in on a flat tire, and, reaching the pits, shouted to his mechanics to hurry their work; and while he waited, chafing and fretting, Lescault clutched at his arm and said impressively:
“Remember, don’t pass Giron unless it’s in front of the judges’ stand. Remember you promised to obey.”
Then the “Ninety” rushed away. Somewhat nervous now, for the race was drawing to a close, Lescault saw the Saturn appear again and knew that Stevenson must come soon after. Impatiently he strained his ear, hoping to catch the rumble of the “Ninety” before it swung round the “Hairpin” into view of the stands. But no rumble came. Soon Stevenson was overdue. Concern and worry, then fear, followed upon impatience. Seconds grew into minutes, and to Lescault the minutes were as ages. He began to ask himself questions. What was wrong? Had Stevenson disobeyed orders?
Lescault feverishly jotted down some figures. Yes, the boy could have passed Giron over by Westbury; but Giron had swept by, and Stevenson—
The pitmen, now alarmed at the delay, had climbed out upon the side of the track. One of them, a little fellow, standing on the shoulders of the others, was trying to see far down the road. Lescault watched his face for some expression of relief, but the pitman’s worry seemed to grow.
“Stevenson’s hurt!”
In a trice the rumor had spread among the crowd. Wild stories spread. The minutes were now dragging on feet of lead—agonizing minutes to Lescault, who felt an overpowering weakness coming over him, a sickening of the heart, an overwhelming of conscience that undermined his iron nerve. Giron had beaten him again! His painstaking work, his self-denials, all the plans of years, had been for naught. And by using Stevenson,—God help him!—he had sent the boy to a fate perhaps worse than his own. Into the scarred face came sorrow.
Then he heard an exclamation; he saw the pitmen dancing about like children.
“He’s coming! He’s coming!” they cried.
Far down the road Lescault made out the white blur of the “Ninety.”