chin in her palms, listening to Mr.
Ellis tell about a driver in a motor race breaking his wrist cranking a
car, and how he--Ellis--had jumped into the car and driven it to
victory. Even Aggie was enthralled. It seemed as if, in the last hour,
the great world of stress and keen wits and endeavor and mad speed had
sat down on our door-step.

As Tish said when we were going up to bed, why shouldn't Mr. Ellis brag?
He had something to brag about.

IV

Although I felt quite sure that Tish had put up the prize money for Mr.
Ellis, I could not be certain. And Tish's attitude at that time did not
invite inquiry. She took long rides daily with the Ellis man in his gray
car, and I have reason to believe that their objective point was always
the same--the race-track.

Mr. Ellis was the busiest man in Morris Valley. In the daytime he was
superintending putting the track in condition, writing what he called
"promotion stuff," securing entries and forming the center of excited
groups at the drug store and one or other of the two public garages.
In the evenings he was generally to be found at Bettina's feet.

Jasper did not come over any more. He sauntered past, evening after
evening, very much white-flanneled and carrying a tennis racket. And
once or twice he took out his old racing-car, and later shot by the
house with a flutter of veils and a motor coat beside him.

Aggie was exceedingly sorry for him, and even went the length of having
the cook bake a chocolate cake and put it on the window sill to cool. It
had, however, no perceptible effect, except to draw from Mr. Ellis, who
had been round at the garage looking at Jasper's old racer, a remark
that he was exceedingly fond of cake, and if he were urged--

That was, I believe, a week before the race. The big city papers had
taken it up, according to Mr. Ellis, and entries were pouring in.

"That's the trouble on a small track," he said--"we can't crowd 'em.
A dozen cars will be about the limit. Even with using the cattle pens
for repair pits we can't look after more than a dozen. Did I tell you
Heckert had entered his Bonor?"

"No!" we exclaimed. As far as Aggie and I were concerned, the Bonor
might have been a new sort of dog.

"Yes, and Johnson his Sampler. It's going to be some race--eh, what!"

Jasper sauntered over that evening, possibly a late result of the cake,
after all. He greeted us affably, as if his defection of the past week
had been merely inc