of warranted cylinder oil
in a speed dash that left the man all used up and rattling mad. Being in
some haste, we didn't look up that can's inner life, but chucked the
stuff where it would do the most good."

"Poor quality?"

"I ain't saying so. The complaint wasn't quality, it was kind. That can
surrounded the finest brand of Koko Korn syrup, extra rich. They had to
knock down our motor with a set of cooking utensils, and the man who did
the job said it was a candied peach."

Gerard laughed.

"Well?" he anticipated.

"Here's your smoke. Well, that type of literature makes my thinks-motor
feel as if molasses was being poured into it for lubrication--it sticks.
Will you take it hard if I raise my voice over the sporting page of the
evening paper, instead?"

Gerard nodded consent, but checked the reply on his lips, listening. The
outer door had opened and closed, someone could be heard speaking to the
mistress of the house.

"Corrie Rose!" he marvelled.

Rupert carefully laid _Thaddeus_ on the table and stood up,
straightening his small, wiry figure.

"I'll crank up and run out," he observed nonchalantly. "Signal
when you want me back."

There was no need of explanation; since the day of the Mercury's wreck,
Rupert had never voluntarily remained in the same room with Corrie or
had exchanged speech with him. The two passed at the doorway, now, with
a curt nod on the part of the mechanician in response to the visitor's
salute.

It was not a heartening reception, nor could Gerard's cordial greeting
lift the shadow of it from Corrie's expression. That long solitary walk
had left his young face drawn with a white fatigue not physical. But his
eyes did not avoid Gerard's, and for the first time he spoke of the
subject always present in the minds of both.

"You ought to hate the sight of me worse than Rupert does," he abruptly
opened. "But--you don't. I don't know why, but you don't."

"No, I certainly do not," Gerard confirmed, his grave eyes on his guest.

Corrie rested one hand upon the narrow mantel, looking down at the
fire-bright squares of the stove. He still wore his gray overcoat and
held his cap, as if prepared to accept dismissal.

"You understand how easily things can go wrong," he said. "I never used
to understand that, but I do now. You have seen drivers go wild in the
race fever, more than once. We have both seen the nicest, sweetest
fellows curse and strike their mechanicians because of a los