"When I'm not using him, he's employed as one
of the factory car testers; and when we're racing I give him the wheel
if I want to fix anything. However, I'm obliged to that
steering-knuckle for breaking here, instead of leaving me to a long
wait in the wilds. Come down to the shop to-morrow at six, and Rupert
and I will even up by taking you for a run."

"Who; me? You're asking me?"

"Why not? It's exhilarating."

Dick removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair,
gratification and alarm mingling in his expression with somewhat the
effect of the small boy who is first invited into a game with his
older brother's clique.

"You--er, wouldn't smash me up?" he hesitated.

"I haven't smashed up Rupert or myself, so far. If you feel timid,
never mind, of course; I'll take my usual companion."

Dick flushed all over his plump face, the Ffrench blood up at last.

"I was only joking," he hastily explained. "I'll come. It's only that
you're so confoundedly reckless sometimes, Lestrange, and--But I'll
come."

Lestrange gave his fine, glinting smile as he rose to salute Emily.

"All right. If you don't get down to the factory in time, I'll call
for you," he promised.

V

There was a change in the Ffrench affairs, a lightening of the
atmosphere, a vague quickening and stir of healthful cheer in the days
that followed. The somber master of the house met it in Bailey's
undisguised elation and pride when they discussed the successful
business now taxing the factory's resources, met it yet again in
Emily's pretty gaiety and content. But most strikingly was he
confronted with an alteration in Dick.

It was only a week after his first morning ride with Lestrange, that
Dick electrified the company at dinner, by turning down the glass at
his plate.

"I've cut out claret, and that sort of thing," he announced. "It's
bad for the nerves."

His three companions looked up in complete astonishment. It was
Saturday night and by ancient custom Bailey was dining at the house.

"What has happened to you? Have you been attending a revival meeting?"
the young man's uncle inquired with sarcasm.

"It's bad for the nerves," repeated Dick. "There isn't any reason why
I shouldn't like to do anything other fellows do. Les--that is, none
of the men who drive cars ever touch that stuff, and look at their
nerve."

Mr. Ffrench contemplated him with the irritation usually produced by
the display of ostentatious virtue, but