For a moment she inspected Teddy Rocco with the interest of a professional rival. He did not look at all like a daredevil just then, but merely a rather astonished little man with a square mechanic’s jaw and a compact, wiry figure, his sleeves rolled up and his arms and face besmeared. There was some reason for his astonishment, too, for in America’s “Queen,” instead of the superannuated, hard-featured circus-performer he had expected, he saw a rather shy, spruce little girl, with bright, black eyes and an absurdly small nose. Her dark hair hung in two thick, glossy ropes over her shoulders, and her skirt was short enough to reveal several inches of well-modeled ankle.
“What is it, Mr. Santoni?” she asked in a small, husky voice.
“It’s only Ted Rocco,” explained the proprietor. “He don’t think you’ll be fast enough for this track.”
The girl stared at Teddy as though he had questioned her respectability.
“How do you know I won’t?” she demanded.
They were particularly bright eyes. The daredevil shifted uncomfortably, and his own eyes wandered over the room as though in search of succor.
“It isn’t that, exactly,” he stammered; “but, you see, miss, we let ’em rip here. My makers pay for speed, and I got to show speed or I don’t collect.”
“You aren’t so much,” retorted the “Queen.” “I bet you don’t average ninety, and I touched ninety myself at Coney last week.”
The daredevil’s eyes ceased to wander, meeting hers in a stare of blank incredulity.
“You did ninety? You!” he said. “For the love of Mike!”