“Very well. I will.”
There was utter silence for perhaps a quarter of a minute. Victor Burnham hardly knew how to frame in words what he wanted to say. Like most men of his type, he was always fearful of placing himself in the power of anybody.
“Of course, Dan, I know you are straight with me. I’m not afraid of your giving any of this conversation away. Even if you did, it would not make any difference. No one would believe you.”
“No one would have to,” retorted Dan. “I don’t talk about my private business. And this is plumb private. Go on, Mr. Burnham. You are so leery of what you say, that anybody would think you’re planning a murder. What’s it all about?”
“If that Thunderbolt had some little thing the matter with it, so that it did not yield all the power it has generally been able to deliver, or so that it would gradually give out—without danger to the driver, of course——”
“Nothing like that could happen without danger to the driver,” threw in Dan. “When a car is going ninety or a hundred miles an hour, or even fifty, there is a chance of the driver’s neck being broken if anything slips. You know that, Mr. Burnham.”
“It does not always follow,” insisted Burnham, “especially when it is only some little thing. In every big race a lot of cars draw out before the finish with some small thing the matter.”
“What, for instance?” growled Dan.
“A flaw in a connecting rod, engine trouble of some kind, carburetor not working just right—any one of a dozen things. I leave it to you what to do. But I want the Thunderbolt to come in behind the Columbiad I drive.”
“Why can’t you drive on the level?” demanded Dan sulkily. “You have a car here that can walk away from any of them. I know. I’ve driven it myself, and I saw you in the trial. Why, you did your ninety miles and over—that is, an average of that—in your trial, and you had any amount of power that you didn’t call on. Why don’t you go into the race and trust to your machine? That’s what I’d do.”