“Little waves where the going rises slightly—almost imperceptibly—and yet which will make a fast-running car swerve. You know that, Clay. You are an automobilist.”
Clay Varron nodded. He did, indeed, understand how slight an obstruction will change the course of a motor car when going at high speed. There could be no argument as to the wisdom of a driver trying out the track as often as possible.
“Of course. Stan, it would be foolish in you to neglect all possible precautions. So I suppose it was wise for you to pass up this dinner-and-show game to-night. There’ll be supper after the theater, of course, and I dare say it will be two o’clock in the morning, if not later, before the fair-haired boy who is talking to you will sink upon his downy pillow.”
“Drivers in three-hundred-and-fifty-mile cup races should not stay up till two in the morning,” said Stanley, with a laugh. “So I have plenty of excuse for not being with you to-night.”
“Another thing, Stan, that might have decided you to remain away is that Victor Burnham will be in the party. I don’t believe you like him any more than I do. Besides, he will be your principal opponent in the race, I think, and you wouldn’t want to talk about it, I know.”
“But he would, I guess?”
“Sure! He’s just the kind of bounder who would try to get your goat by talking about the difficulties of the thing, and wondering whether your car will stand the racket.”
“That would be very unsportsmanlike,” remarked Stanley, with a shrug.
“Of course. That’s why Burnham would do it. He’s a scalawag through and through, Stan. I know that. I’ve met him before. And, I tell you, old man, when you are in the race, you want to look out for him. If there is anything he can do to foul you, that’s what he’ll do.”
Stanley Downs laughed disdainfully.