-mile an hour gait now held by the
Mercury. But he was not allowed to pass. Each time he essayed it, the
other racer swerved in front and cut off the road.

It was as dangerous a game as could well be designed, had either driver
been less skilled, but it was safe enough now. Gerard was laughing as he
drove, when the first tiny missile rattled against his car.

"He's pitching spare bolts," shouted Rupert, at his companion's ear,
himself grimly amused. "Peevish, ain't he?"

Gerard nodded, and crossed the narrow road with an unexpected turn that
drew a baffled explosion from the checked car behind. A brass nut
smacked the Mercury's gasoline tank. It was not difficult to imagine
Corrie's excited tempest of defeat, to those who knew him.

"The turn's ahead--we'll call it off there," Gerard answered mirthfully.
"Give her some oil."

The two cars were rushing down the last half-mile of straight road.
Rupert was stooping to reach the oil pump when the pink car made its
final attempt to pass and was again forced back, but across his
outstretched arm he glanced up to Gerard, and glimpsed the last flying
missile as it came.

"_Duck!_" he shouted harshly, "Look out----"

There was no time for action. As Gerard turned his head, the heavy steel
wrench struck him below the right temple. Even Rupert's swiftness was
too slow; the driver fell forward across his steering-wheel before the
mechanician could snatch it from the inert grasp. With a lurch the
speeding Mercury caught in a rut, swerved from the road and, leaping a
yard-high embankment, crashed through a row of trees to roll over and
over like a broken toy, scattering splintered wreckage over the
farmhouse enclosure beyond.

The light breeze of half an hour earlier had freshened and gained
strength, the pale-gray sky was changing to delicate blue. When the
horrified knot of reporters and motor enthusiasts from the nearby
Westbury corner swarmed into the orchard to join the pale-faced farmer
already there, the sun emerged brilliantly from a bank of clouds,
glinting across the heap of twisted metal and the still figure that lay
beneath it, illumining the dishevelled, gasping mechanician who
struggled dizzily to rise from where he had been flung to safety, fifty
feet from the wreck.

It is difficult for any group of men, however willing, to work without a
leader. While the inexperienced rescuers stood hesitating on the verge
of action, Corrie Rose in his pink racing costum