“I tell you it’s no game for a girl,” Teddy persisted.
“Why not? I’d look nicer dead than you.”
“Touch wood when you say that,” advised Teddy, laying his own hand on the bench.
“I won’t,” the girl retorted. “I reckoned all the chances before I came into the game, and there’s no one to cry over me if I did get killed except Aunty, and she’s made up her mind to it long ago and become quite resigned. Besides, I’ve taken chances ever since I can remember. Did you ever play the carnivals? I was raised in them, if you can call it that. I did the high dive for years into a sort of canvas bucket half-full of water, and I don’t think I’ve a scare in me.”
TEDDY ROCCO might have recalled this conversation, with superstitious interest in its prophetic nature, the week before he left for the prize meetings; but that, with most other things, was swept out of his mind when he hunted for Santoni with blood on his face, swearing that he had always intended to kill the proprietor and might as well get it over.
It all happened in consequence of Santoni’s attempt to achieve a gala finish to his season before his stars departed. To that end, he had employed many banners in decoration of the velodrome, and one of them, insecurely affixed to its post, came loose while the riders were in mid-career. It fluttered aimlessly down upon the track, was caught up in the wind of Ryan’s rush, danced a little behind him, and finally wrapped itself round Sadie’s front wheel. There was a gasp of horror from the spectators as the flimsy, yellow cotton wound itself tightly on the hub.
For a fraction of a second the heavy cycle, urged by its frantic motor, slurred along the track with its front wheel jammed; then the tire burst, the forks snapped like carrots, and Sadie’s tiny red figure shot ahead over the handle-bars, struck the wire fence in front of the spectators, and fell back limply on the track.
In that final emergency she had retained presence of mind enough to cut off the ignition, and below her on the incline her machine lay crumpled and inert, as silent and shattered as herself.
Teddy Rocco was fully fifty yards behind; that is, he had a good long second in which to do his thinking. To his left was Sadie’s machine, on his right the crowd yelled an inarticulate chorus of fear and warning, which he heard above the roar of his motor. Dead ahead of him lay a small, outstretched figure in torn and dusty scarlet leather; and immediately above the white little face was a clear foot of almost perpendicular banking.
With a prayer for speed, he tore his throttle wide open, and steered straight for that pale, blood-stained face until he could see the dark lashes on the flickering eyelids; then with a violent swerve he shot up the incline, and cleared her by inches.