When she cut off her ignition and slipped gradually down the banking, he was the first to assist her to alight.
“Say, kid, I want to tell you I’m sorry,” he whispered before the others ran up. “I’m glad you’re going to ride with us.”
For a moment the “Queen’s” eyes danced with pleasure; then they became softly diffident again as she turned away to stable her machine.
“I don’t fancy I’ll let the show down so badly,” she smiled over her shoulder.
In truth, the popularity of Sadie Simmons among the crowds that flocked to the velodrome was immediate and great. She was irresistibly diminutive and dainty, and silent and retiring in manner when not racing; but once on her machine, rattling and bouncing round the circumscribed track with the noise of a whole express-train, she was transformed into a little red imp of daring unexcelled by the men; and though they consistently beat her when it came to a test, it was Sadie whom the crowds cheered and the fans petted.
A faded woman, of an incurable pessimism, clucked everywhere after her, like a hen after an adventurous duckling. Except for this unexhilarating person, whom she addressed as “Aunty,” but who frequently forgot the suggested relationship and called her “Miss,” Sadie appeared to be quite alone in the world. She accepted with frank pleasure the friendly advances of the fans, the comradeship of Wild Will Ryan, and the wondering worship of Teddy Rocco.
One morning Ryan emerged from the garage, laughing immoderately, and pressing a hand to his face.
“What’s bitin’ you, Irish?” inquired Teddy.
The big Irishman withdrew his hand, and exhibited a cheek decorated with the imprint of small and oily fingers on a ground that flamed scarlet.
“It’s little Sadie; she’s straight, that’s all,” he replied with a grin, as though he had discovered a choice witticism.