"Honestly, Lestrange, do you practise racing here?"

"Hardly. I'm trying out the car; every car has to go through that
before it is used. Don't you know that we've recently secured from the
local authorities a permit to run at any speed over this road between
four o'clock and eight in the morning? I thought all the country-side
knew that."

"But we have a regiment of men to test cars."

Lestrange passed a caressing glance over the dingy-gray machine in its
state of bareness that suggested indecorum.

"This is my car, the one I'll race this spring and summer. No one
drives it but me. Besides, I have to have some diversion."

He stepped to the ground with the last word, and went around to where
Rupert was on his knees beside the machine.

"Can you fix it here?" he demanded.

"Not precisely," was the drawled reply. "Back to camp for it with a
horse in front."

"All right. You'll have to walk down and get a car from Mr. Bailey to
tow it home."

Rupert got up, his dark, malign little face twisted.

"If I'd broken a leg they'd have sent a cart for me," he mourned. "Now
I'll have to walk, and I ain't used to it. Hard luck!"

"If you go around to the stables they will give you my pony cart,"
Emily offered impulsively. "You," her dimpling smile gleamed out, "you
once put a tire on for me, you know. Please let me return the
service."

Rupert's black eyes opened, a slow grin of appreciation crinkled
streaks of dust and oil as he surveyed the young girl.

"I'll put tires on every wheel you run into control, day and night
shifts," he acknowledged with sweet cordiality. "But I'm no
horse-chauffeur, thanks; I guess I'll walk."

"He is a gentle pony," she remonstrated. "Any one can drive him."

He turned a side glance toward the motionless car.

"That's all right, but I'm used to being killed other ways. I'll be
going."

"Jack Rupert, do you mean to tell me that you will race with
Lestrange every season, and yet you're afraid to drive a fat cob?"
cried the delighted Dick.

"I'm not telling anything. I had a chum who was pitched out by a horse
he lost control of, and broke his neck. I'm taking no chances."

"How many men have you seen break their necks out of autos?"

"That's in business," pronounced Rupert succinctly. "I'm going on,
Darling; it's only a two-mile run."

"Here, wait," Dick urged. "Emily, I'll stroll around to the stables
with him and make one of the men drive him down. You don't mind my
leavi