The advance of the spectators had already assumed the form of a slow and unbroken stream. Some came on foot from the railway station, carrying sandwiches and camp stools; some on tandem bicycles; some in “runabouts” or motor cycle sidecar combinations, but most were in modestly priced motor cars. Their clothes and demeanour proclaimed them as belonging to the middle rank; a few brought portable wireless sets with them and other evidence of gaiety, but the general air of the procession was one of sobriety and purpose. This was no Derby day holiday-making; they had not snatched a day from the office to squander it among gipsies and roundabouts and thimble-and-pea men. They were there for the race. As they crawled along in bottom gear in a fog of exhaust gas, they discussed the technicalities of motor car design and the possibilities of bloodshed, and studied their maps of the course to pick out the most dangerous corners.
The detour planned by the Chief Constable was a long one, lined with bungalows and converted railway carriages. Banners floated over it between the telegraph posts, mostly advertising the Morning Despatch, which was organizing the race and paying for the victor’s trophy—a silver gilt figure of odious design, symbolizing Fame embracing Speed. (This at the moment was under careful guard in the stewards’ room, for the year before it had been stolen on the eve of the race by the official timekeeper, who pawned it for a ridiculously small sum in Manchester, and was subsequently deprived of his position and sent to gaol.) Other advertisements proclaimed the superiorities of various sorts of petrol and sparking plugs, while some said “£100 for Loss of Limb. Insure Today.” There was also an elderly man walking among the motor cars with a blue and white banner inscribed, “Without Shedding of Blood is no Remission of Sin,” while a smartly dressed young man was doing a brisk trade in bogus tickets for the Grand Stand.
Adam sat in the back of the car with Miles, who was clearly put out about his friend’s lack of cordiality. “What I can’t make out,” he said, “is why we came to this beastly place at all. I suppose I ought to be thinking of something to write for the Excess. I know this is just going to be the most dreary day we’ve ever spent.”
Adam felt inclined to agree. Suddenly he became aware that someone was trying to attract his attention.
“There’s an awful man shouting ‘Hi’ at you,” said Miles. “My dear, your friends.”
Adam turned and saw not three yards away, separated from him by a young woman riding a push-bicycle in khaki shorts, her companion, who bore a knapsack on his shoulders, and a small boy selling programmes, the long-sought figure of the drunk Major. He looked sober enough this morning, dressed in a bowler hat and Burberry, and he was waving frantically to Adam from the dicky of a coupé car.
“Hi!” cried the drunk Major. “Hi! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“I’ve been looking for you,” shouted Adam. “I want some money.”
“Can’t hear—what do you want?”
“Money.”
“It’s no good—these infernal things make too much noise. What’s your name? Lottie had forgotten.”
“Adam Symes.”
“Can’t hear.”
The line of traffic, creeping forward yard by yard, had at last reached the point B on the Chief Constable’s map, where the dotted lines diverged. A policeman stood at the crossing directing the cars right and left, some to the parking place behind the Grand Stand, others to the mound above the pits. Archie turned on to the left. The drunk Major’s car accelerated and swept away to the right.
“I must know your name,” he cried. All the drivers seemed to choose this moment to sound their horns; the woman cyclist at Adam’s elbow rang her bell; the male cyclist tooted a little horn like a Paris taxi, and the programme boy yelled in his ear, “Official programme—map of the course—all the drivers.”
“Adam Symes,” he shouted desperately, but the Major threw up his hands in despair and he disappeared in the crowd.
“The way you pick people up …” said Miles, startled into admiration.
“The pits” turned out to be a line of booths, built of wood and corrugated iron immediately opposite the Grand Stand. Many of the cars had already arrived and stood at their “pits,” surrounded by a knot of mechanics and spectators; they seemed to be already under repair. Busy officials hurried up and down, making entries in their lists. Over their heads a vast loud speaker was relaying the music of a military band.
The Grand Stand was still fairly empty, but the rest of the course was already lined with people. It stretched up and down hill for a circle of thirteen or fourteen miles, and those who were fortunate enough to own cottages or public houses at the more dangerous corners had covered their roofs with unstable wooden forms, and were selling tickets like very expensive hot cakes. A grass-covered hill rose up sharply behind the pits. On this had been erected a hoarding where a troop of Boy Scouts were preparing to score the laps, passing the time contentedly with ginger beer, toffee, and rough-and-tumble fights. Behind the hoarding was a barbed wire fence, and behind that again a crowd of spectators and several refreshment tents. A wooden bridge, advertising the Morning Despatch, had been built on the road. At various points officials might be seen attempting
