ed, it was noted that the
Mercury car had suddenly slackened its pace. The difference in speed was
not great; the car was running faultlessly, but keeping a slower gait.
The men in the Mercury camp clustered together, waiting and discussing.

The car came around on the next lap with the condition hardly improved.
Rupert was neither watching behind nor busied with his usual duties, but
sat erect in his seat with one arm around Corrie's shoulders, apparently
talking in the driver's ear, head bent to head. Neither glanced toward
the row of repair pits or the grand-stand, as they passed between and on
out of view. Gerard's brows contracted sharply; he uttered an excuse to
Flavia and went front.

"Morton's giving out, too," the manager of the next camp imparted
confidentially, joining him. "The road-bed is rotten, the men say. Ten
feet of it caved in at one turn. Too bad!"

"Rose had no sleep last night," Gerard briefly excused his driver.

"God, how I've ground it into the boy," Corrie's father had said; and
Gerard could have echoed the cry, looking back at what he had meant for
kindness.

The moments dragged, the next scant quarter-hour stretched long. But at
last the Mercury's vibrant voice rolled down the white road,
approaching. Up to her camp the car sped, and stopped.

Before the halt was effected, Rupert had snatched off the driver's
suffocating mask, leaning over him.

"Oil, gas," he demanded generally. "Jump for those tanks, _quick_. Here,
Rose----"

His white, fatigue-drawn face bared to the fresh wind, Corrie tried to
speak, but instead let his head fall forward on his arm as it rested
upon the steering-wheel.

"Rose, you low-down quitter, you punk chauffeuse!" Rupert stormed at
him. "You going to chuck up a won race? You mollycoddle----Water, you
fellows--can't you even wait on a real man? Here, Rose, you ain't
anything but a fake!"

He carefully splashed the water over the boyish forehead, streaks of
grime trickling over them both.

"Fill the tanks," Corrie gasped, lying passive under the rough
treatment. "I'm ready to go on--tell me when."

Gerard was beside the car.

"Corrie," he began.

Rupert unexpectedly flamed out at him across the prostrate figure:

"Let him alone! He ain't a Sandow and the driving's hell. He's going on,
I tell you. Here, Rose, get some class into you, what?"

But Gerard had a better tonic than cold water or stinging abuse. He
silenced the mechanician with a glance a