Miss Runcible and her party found their way to the pit numbered 13 and sat on the matchboard counter smoking and signing autograph books. An official bore down on them.
“No smoking in the pits, please.”
“My dear, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t know.”
There were six open churns behind Miss Runcible, four containing petrol and two water. She threw her cigarette over her shoulder, and by a beneficent attention of Providence which was quite rare in her career it fell into the water. Had it fallen into the petrol it would probably have been all up with Miss Runcible.
Presently No. 13 appeared. Miles’ friend and his mechanic wearing overalls, crash-helmets, and goggles, jumped out, opened the bonnet and began to reconstruct it again.
“They didn’t ought to have a No. 13 at all,” said the mechanic. “It isn’t fair.”
Miss Runcible lit another cigarette.
“No smoking in the pits, please,” said the official.
“My dear, how awful of me. I quite forgot.”
(This time it fell in the mechanic’s luncheon basket and lay smouldering quietly on a leg of chicken until it had burnt itself out.)
Miles’ friend began filling up his petrol tank with the help of a very large funnel.
“Listen,” he said. “You’re not allowed to hand me anything direct, but if Edwards holds up his left hand as we come past the pits, that means we shall be stopping next lap for petrol. So what you’ve got to do is to fill up a couple of cans and put them on the shelf with the funnel for Edwards to take. If Edwards holds up his right hand …” elaborate instructions followed. “You’re in charge of the depot,” he said to Archie. “D’you think you’ve got all the signals clear? The race may depend on them, remember.”
“What does it mean if I wave the blue flag?”
“That you want me to stop.”
“Why should I want you to stop?”
“Well, you might see something wrong—leaking tank or anything like that, or the officials might want the number plate cleaned.”
“I think perhaps I won’t do anything much about the blue flag. It seems rather too bogus for me.”
Miss Runcible lit another cigarette.
“Will you kindly leave the pits if you wish to smoke?” said the official.
“What a damned rude man,” said Miss Runcible. “Let’s go up to that divine tent and get a drink.”
They climbed the hill past the Boy Scouts, found a gate in the wire fence, and eventually reached the refreshment tent. Here an atmosphere of greater geniality prevailed. A profusion of men in plus-fours were having “quick ones” before the start. There was no nonsense about not smoking. There was a middle-aged woman sitting on the grass with a bottle of stout and a baby.
“Home from home,” said Miss Runcible.
Suddenly the military band stopped and a voice said, “Five minutes to twelve. All drivers and mechanics on the other side of the track, please.”
There was a hush all over the course, and the refreshment tent began to empty quickly.
“Darling, we shall miss the start.”
“Still, a drink would be nice.”
So they went into the tent.
“Four whiskies, please,” said Archie Schwert.
“You’ll miss the start,” said the barmaid.
“What a pig that man was,” said Miss Runcible. “Even if we weren’t supposed to smoke, he might at least have asked us politely.”
“My dear, it was only you.”
“Well, I think that made it worse.”
“Lor’, Miss,” said the barmaid. “You surely ain’t going to miss the start?”
“It’s the one thing I want to see more than anything … my dear, I believe they’re off already.”
The sudden roar of sixty high-power engines rose from below. “They have started … how too shaming.” They went to the door of the tent. Part of the road was visible over the heads of the spectators, and they caught a glimpse of the cars running all jammed together like pigs being driven through a gate; one by one they shook themselves free and disappeared round the bend with a high shriek of acceleration.
“They’ll be round again in quarter of an hour,” said Archie. “Let’s have another drink.”
“Who was ahead?” asked the barmaid anxiously.
“I couldn’t see for certain,” said Miss Runcible, “but I’m fairly sure it was No. 13.”
“My!”
The refreshment tent soon began to fill up again. The general opinion seemed to be that it was going to be a close race between No. 13 and No. 28, a red Omega car, driven by Marino, the Italian “ace.”
“Dirtiest driver I ever seen,” said one man with relish.
“Why, over at Belfast ’e was just tipping ’em all into the ditches, just like winking.”
“There’s one thing you can be sure of. They won’t both finish.”
“It’s sheer murder the way that Marino drives—a fair treat to see ’im.”
“He’s a one all right—a real artist and no mistake about it.”
Adam and Miss Runcible and Archie and Miles went back to their pit.
“After all,” said Miss Runcible, “the poor sweet may be wanting all sorts of things and signalling away like mad, and no one there to pay any attention to him—so discouraging.”
By this time the cars were fairly evenly spread out over the course. They flashed by intermittently with dazzling speed and a shriek; one or two drew into their pits and the drivers leapt out, trembling like leaves, to tinker with the works. One had already come to grief—a large German whose tyre had burst—punctured, some said, by a hireling of Marino’s. It had left the road and shot up a tree like a cat chased by a dog. Two little American cars had failed to start; their team worked desperately at them amid derisive comments from the crowd. Suddenly two cars appeared coming down the straight, running abreast within two feet of each other.
“It’s No. 13,” cried Miss Runcible, really excited at last. “And there’s that Italian devil just beside it. Come on, thirteen! Come on!” she cried, dancing in the pit and waving a flag she
