The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Black Tiger, by Patrick O'Connor.

Produced by: Tim Lindell, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

THE BLACK TIGER

Woody Hartford, seated upon a four-legged stool of uncertain design, examined the pieces of a carburetor that lay on a bench before him, and contemplated a problem of the nicest delicacy.

The problem had nothing to do with the carburetor. Woody at seventeen could put that back together without even thinking of what he was doing. He'd cleaned and adjusted a score of them since he first started working at McNess Union Service Station, Hermosa Beach, California, two years ago. The problem concerned the matter of whether to spend ten dollars on Cindy Lou or on Mary Jane. It was not one that could be lightly decided.

There were, Woody was dimly aware, certain ethical factors involved. Cindy Lou needed the money spent on her in the worst way. On the other hand, if Mary Jane ever found out about it, she would, in a ladylike manner, raise a great deal of trouble.

Again, if, to avoid strained relations with Mary Jane, Woody spent the money on her, it would be a long time before he would have a ten spot to spend on Cindy Lou.

"A guy with a hot rod and thirty bucks a week," Woody said to the float chamber of the carburetor, "has no right having a girl friend, too. On the other hand," he added, "a guy with a hot rod is going to wind up with a girl friend whether he wants one or not. There's no arguing about that."

He sighed, reached for one of a number of remarkably dirty rags on the workbench, and thrust it into the float chamber of the carburetor. He'd have used a clean rag if one was available. Clean rags were delivered every Monday to the McNess Union Service Station, but Mondays were Woody's days off. When he arrived for work on Tuesday the rags were all uniformly dirty. This was one of the minor oddities about the service station that Woody had long ago ceased to trouble himself over.

Cindy Lou was Woody's hot rod. Or to be more precise, she was Woody's 1940 Ford coupé, which he was converting into a hot rod with the hope one day of competing in drag races. He'd already milled her head, worked over the chassis, changed the gear ratio, and moved the engine so that it was no longer in front of the driver's seat. Instead it was alongside the driver, and separated from the driver by a makeshift firewall. All that was needed now was to buy a four-carburetor manifold and Woody figured that Cindy Lou would hit a hundred miles an hour in a quarter mile from a standing start. A hundred miles an hour wasn't championship speed or anything like it. Some of the boys were getting a hundred and thirty out of their mills. But it would be good for Cindy Lou, and with more expansive engine modifications, it could be improved even further.

But the final payment on the carburetor rig, secondhand, would cost ten bucks. And Mary Jane was expecting to be taken out that night with the same ten bucks.

"Maybe," said Woody hopefully, still cleaning the float chamber, "I could give the guy five on the manifold and squeak by with Mary Jane on the other five." But he knew even as he said it that the compromise wouldn't work. Bob Peters, who had the manifold, wanted cash and spoke darkly of several other offers. And Mary Jane wasn't the kind of girl you could take to the corner drugstore for a lemon coke, then to the movies, and call it an evening.

Every now and then Mary Jane got it into her head that she wanted to go out in style. And Woody knew he'd better take her. She went through phases of being very sophisticated and looked upon drugstore entertainment as kid stuff. During her sophisticated intervals, she read books by Aldous Huxley and talked about the social obligations of the upper strata.

At such times, and this was one of them, Mary Jane didn't want to hear a word about Cindy Lou, in which she was normally interested. And the mention of carburetors and manifolds left her slightly hostile.

The telephone rang, interrupting Woody's reflections. He wiped his hands briefly on his khaki pants, got down off the stool, and went over to the phone, which was fastened to a wall of the garage.

Things, Woody replied, rubbing the end of his nose with an oil-blackened hand, were pretty good. He knew what was coming. Bob was on the line and after a little more palaver would want to know whether he was going to hand over the final payment on the manifold. Bob was never one to get right to the point. He was studying salesmanship and had read somewhere that most big sales were made in the course of friendly discussions with clients about their own problems and affairs. So Bob asked Woody whether he felt good and whether his dad was in good health and had he gone to the dry lakes racecourse last weekend and what he thought of the weather. Woody replied noncommittally to all these inquiries while he weighed Cindy Lou in the balance against Mary Jane. Finally Bob decided that he'd done enough of the friendly discussion part of salesmanship and should get down to the point.

"Say, Woody," he said, "I don't want you to get the idea that I'm rushing you. But I've had a couple of offers for that manifold, and I was wondering whether you could give me the last payment and pick it up today. I'd like to have you have it rather than these other guys, but I need the dough today."

"No," said Bob. "I'd like to oblige a pal. But I've got a real hot deal on myself, and I've got to have the skins."

"I'll buzz by with the plumbing and pick up the dough about six-thirty. S'long."

Only when he had hung up did he realize the enormity of his offense. Without consulting her, he had in one second rejected Mary Jane for Cindy Lou. And Mary Jane was definitely expecting to be taken out that night. When he'd paid for the manifold, he would have exactly one dollar and fifteen cents left. That was not sufficient for even a lemon-coke-and-movie evening.

Furthermore there wasn't any hope of raising a loan this late in the day. Woody's father, who would be good for a loan after a slight lecture, was out of town. His mother, he knew, had only three or four dollars of housekeeping money around and probably needed that. And Worm McNess, proprietor of the McNess Union Service Station and Woody's boss, was as tight as a tappet. His idea of a loan was fifty cents, and Woody needed at least seven or eight dollars.

Worm McNess came by his nickname fairly enough. His full name was William Orville Randolph McNess, the initials spelling "Worm." But beyond that he was long and thin, rather as if a piece of spaghetti had been brought to man size and given human features and limbs. And over and above all, this Worm could wiggle and twist around a car in positions next to impossible for mechanics built on more normal lines.

Woody liked Worm. He was a good boss with a quiet sense of humor and an inexhaustible knowledge of the insides of automobiles. Woody could never make up his mind whether Worm really liked cars or not. He seemed to view them all with a certain contempt. "Bucket" was his terse term for any automobile brought into the service station for repair—though it was a term he did not use in the presence of the owner. Cadillacs, Thunderbirds, or Chevvies—all were buckets to Worm. Yet he worked on them with the greatest care, and when he was through, had always done an expert job. It was hard for Woody to understand why he viewed all automobiles with such contempt and yet worked on them with such care.

Worm was putting the pan back on a Chevvy now—the same car whose carburetor Woody was busy cleaning. He rolled out from underneath, got to his feet somewhat unsteadily, and hunched his thin shoulders forward. This done, he reached gingerly with two long greasy fingers into the breast pocket of his shirt and took out a cigarette.

"Hurry oop wi' yon carburetor and let's get this bucket o' bolts oot of here," he said. His accent, after fifteen years in America, was still straight from Aberdeen, Scotland.

Woody by now had the carburetor back together again and got busy installing it. All the time he kept wondering whether he ought to call Bob Peters and tell him he found he hadn't the dough and the manifold deal was off. Or whether he ought to call Mary Jane and tell her something had come up and he couldn't take her out that night. Or whether, just on the chance that this was a day for miracles, he ought to ask Worm for a loan of six or seven bucks.

He decided, since Worm was close at hand and relaxing with his cigarette, that he'd try him first.

"Say, Worm," he said in as offhand a manner as he could manage, "how about letting me have a couple of bucks until payday?"

"Bucket o' bolts," he said ignoring the question completely and shaking his head more in sorrow than in anger over the Chevvy. "Mon, they ought to take the poor beastie and gie her a decent Christian burial. She's eighty thousand miles on her if she's been driven a yard."

Woody was used to these tactics and knew what to do about them. He said nothing for a minute or two while he connected the gas line to the carburetor. Then he said, "How about letting me have a couple of bucks until payday, Worm?"

"It's a wonder her wheels aren't square," said Worm, concentrating with great determination on the car. "I tell you, laddie, there's no one but McNess could have got her running again."

"Her cylinders have been bored so many times, her pistons will be slapping aroond in water before long."

"Hoot, laddie. What's all your concern aboot money? Ye'll only be spending it. When I served my apprenticeship in Aberdeen, I worked five years without getting a nickel."

So easy a victory disturbed Worm. He felt that he had been perhaps something less than generous. He was sensitive about being considered tight with money (undoubtedly because this was the truth) and would tell anyone who was prepared to listen that the Highland Scots are the most generous people in the world. He was a Highland Scot.

"Ah weel," he said, "I recall as a laddie that it was hard to be walking around without a groat to comfort me fist with. How much do ye want?"

"Six or seven bucks," said Woody. He hoped for ten, but it was a desperate hope.

"Whist, mon," said Worm, a look between astonishment and outrage showing in his pale blue eyes. "Do ye think I'm the Bank of England? I'll let ye have two dollars to payday and not a penny more."

He went over to the cash box, opened it as if it were the main vault of Morgan's bank on Wall Street, and came back with a dollar bill and some silver in his hand. He gave Woody the dollar, solemnly pronouncing the word "One" and then counted out three quarters, two dimes, and a nickel.

"Not on this," said Woody. He didn't want to sound ungrateful, but the money was just not enough.

"Laddie," said Worm, "I'm a man that knows a great deal aboot womenfolk. And there's naething truer aboot them than that if they really love ye, they'll be wanting ye to save yere money and not go splashing it around on them."

Woody wondered what kind of girl friends they had in Scotland when Worm was a boy. Mary Jane wasn't a gold digger. But she liked to be taken out now and again, and he didn't blame her for it. He looked at the long, pale length of Worm standing before him as solemn as a preacher and decided that he probably hadn't had any girl friends when he was serving his apprenticeship in Scotland. From what he could gather, his closest friends seemed to have been a kit of mechanic's tools and a book called Davie's Problems and Principles of Internal Combustion Engines.

There was just about time, now that Worm had failed to come through with a loan, to call up Mary Jane and see whether he could postpone their date. He hated to do it, because he suspected that Mary Jane had had her hair done or received some other kind of unnecessary and expensive beauty treatment in preparation for the evening.

He dialed her number, not knowing quite how he would put it, and was further distressed when she answered the phone right away. Almost her first statement was, "Oh, Woody, there's a movie based on one of Somerset Maugham's books at the Criton, and I'm just dying to see it. You ought to see it too. It got raves from the really good critics. It would do you a lot of good."

Woody groaned. Somerset Maugham. That meant that his instincts were correct and Mary Jane was intent upon an adult-type evening out.

"Gee," he said. "I don't think I can make it tonight, Mary Jane. I've, er ... well, something's happened."

It seemed to Woody that the temperature around him fell about ten degrees when he said that, and the slight silence that followed seemed to last about five years.

"What's happened?" asked Mary Jane, and Woody could have sworn that there was cold water trickling from the receiver which he held to his ear.

"Woody Hartford," said Mary Jane. "You knew ten days ago about this date. You asked for it then. You had plenty of time to call me before—"

"Never mind," snapped Mary Jane. "I'm going to the movie, and it won't be with you. I just hope I never see you again—you and that silly old car of yours." Woody thought he heard a sob before the receiver clicked in his ear.

At ten minutes to seven, Bob Peters came round with the manifold. He swept into the service station in a yellow Buick convertible that Woody knew he'd bought out of spare-time earnings. Woody took one look at him, and his heart sank. Mary Jane, dressed up as lovely as a princess, was seated beside Bob, and she looked right through him.

"The manifold's in the back," said Bob cheerfully. "Do you mind getting it out? I don't want to soil my duds."

Woody opened up the back of the convertible and took out the manifold. When he had put it on the ground carefully, Bob said, "That'll be ten bucks—cash."

Woody gave the money, a five and five singles, to Bob, and Mary Jane said, "Oh," putting more scorn and contempt into the word than Woody would have thought possible. Then the two drove off, Mary Jane with her nose very high in the air and her brown eyes surprisingly stony.

Woody looked at the manifold and after the departing car. He thought of Worm's book, Davie's Problems and Principles of Internal Combustion Engines.

"I think I've got the same sort of girl friend that you had in Scotland," he said.

In the week that followed, Woody caught only a few glimpses of Mary Jane. She cut him dead each time. They'd had their quarrels before, but Woody realized that this time it was pretty serious, and there was little he could do to alter the situation.

"When a dame spends five bucks fixing up her hair to be taken out and you spend ten bucks fixing up a hot rod and don't take her out, you're back in the stag line again," his friend Steve Phillips told him philosophically. "Why don't you forget about that pile of junk and spend your time straightening things out with Mary Jane? She's a nice kid. You ought to take more care of her."

"Wouldn't do any good," said Woody. "Besides, if she's going to be my steady, she's got to take the hot rod as well. I'm not interested in dames that want me to spend the rest of my life catching up on Aldous Huxley and Somerset Maugham. Betcha neither of them can drive a car."

Woody spent the week fixing up Cindy Lou in the intervals between working in Worm's garage. He wanted to get her ready for a trial run at the salt lakes out in the Mojave Desert by the following Saturday. The salt lakes were where the drag races were held. But there could be none that weekend. However, the quarter-mile, half-mile, and mile markers would be there, and he would be able to test Cindy Lou's speed.

In the drag races, hot rods do not compete directly with each other. They go singly over the measured straightaway. Their speeds are electrically timed and the winner picked on a fastest-time basis. Steve had agreed to come out to the salt lakes to help with the timing. And even Worm began to show an interest in Cindy Lou now that she was nearing her test run.

He came over one evening while Woody was adjusting the tappets and looked at Cindy Lou with enormous disfavor.

"Sure," said Woody. "Ought to go like a bomb. Figure I can get her up past the hundred mark."

Worm made no reply to this other than to give a disapproving cluck of his tongue. He was fascinated by the weird engine position and got down on the ground on his back to examine it and the differential hook-up.

"It's all contrary to Davie's Problems and Principles of Internal Combustion Engines," he said when he emerged from beneath the hot rod. "That Davie was a sound mon, now. Ye'd do better ta spend more time studying his book, of which I have a copy in the office. How many gears do ye have on this beastie?"

"Two," said Woody highly flattered, despite Worm's disapproval, that he was taking any interest in Cindy Lou at all. "Low will take her up to about sixty-five from a standing start. I have to hit sixty before I can shift up. Then she'll really take off."

Nonetheless, Worm was obviously fascinated by the hot rod and gave a grunt of approval at the way in which the various engineering problems of its unorthodox design had been solved. Indeed, he became so interested that after inquiring cautiously whether it would be very expensive, he agreed to come out to the salt lakes and help with the speed trials.

"Ye'll be needing some cold plugs, I'm thinking," he said. "The ones ye have there'll never do the trick. I've eight I can lend ye. But ye must gie them back when ye're through wi' them." He went into his office while Woody looked in wonder at Steve. He'd never known Worm to show so much interest in a car before.

"Maybe he's trying to make up for not lending you that dough the other night," Steve suggested.

Woody shook his head. "He thinks he did me a favor," he said. "His idea of dames is that the more money they let you spend on them, the less they are worth."

Worm now returned with the eight plugs. They were of an Italian make, each wrapped in a piece of greased paper on which instructions on their care and setting were printed. Happily these were printed in English as well.

"I'll set them myself for ye," said Worm. "But ye'd best not use them until the speed trial. Hoo are ye going tae get yon bucket of bolts oot to the track? Ye canna drive it through the streets wi' only two gears. Onyway, I don't think the police would let ye, wi' the engine beside the driver."

Woody explained that the car would have to be towed. He had a tow bar and hoped to borrow somebody else's car for the job.

"We can use the Dodge," he said. This was indeed a concession, for the Dodge, a 1928 model, was Worm's greatest love. He'd bought it in a junk yard for ten dollars and rebuilt it himself. Every year he took the whole engine apart, renewed any parts that were worn, and put it back together again. New parts he had to make himself or have made. Yet he would not consider buying another car and puttered back and forth in the Dodge at a maximum speed of thirty miles an hour.

The Dodge had solid wheels and strange thin tires. Its seats compelled their occupants to sit bolt upright. It was a roadster, with a canvas top set on oak supports. When it rained, and the top was put up, side curtains of isinglass had to be installed to keep the rain out. The windshield wiper operated spasmodically off the manifold vacuum, and the gas tank, made of brass, was outside the car, slung in the rear.

Nonetheless, it never failed to start at the press of a button, and since it couldn't go any faster than thirty miles an hour, its two-wheel mechanical brakes were adequate.

That evening Woody worked late making up a batch of dope for Cindy Lou. The highest octane gasoline available was not good enough to give her top performance. She needed special fuel of which the base was gasoline. But, to this, Woody added alcohol and nitro-methane, the whole concoction smelling vilely and promising an explosion at any moment.

He mixed up a total of six gallons, which he placed in three two-gallon containers and put them in a cool part of the garage.

When he got home that evening—it was Friday—he was dog tired and almost too excited to eat. Cindy Lou was hopped up as well as he could do with his present equipment. She ought to do well. And if she did, he'd enter her in the Southcal Drag Races at the old Burbank airport in two weeks. That could mean winning a cup.

"Woody," his mother said when he came through the kitchen door. "Somebody called you on the phone about ten minutes ago. But she hung up without giving her name when I said you weren't in."

"Gosh," said Woody and went immediately to the telephone. His father, now back from his business trip and sitting in the living room reading, sighed. He served on the City Council at Hermosa Beach and was having a hard time analysing a report on street improvement.

"Try and keep it short," he said, but he didn't think it would do much good. Telephone conversations with Mary Jane seemed to last a minimum of half an hour.

"Hello," said Woody into the phone. "Mary Jane? Were you calling me?" There was a short interval of silence during which Mr. Hartford was shocked to discover from his report that it had cost the city $217 to replace damaged rubbish-disposal bins during the year. Then Woody said plaintively, "Gee, Mary Jane. I can't. I've got Cindy Lou all fixed up and I'm going to try her out—" He didn't finish the sentence but hung up despondently.

Mr. Hartford looked up from his report. Vague memories of similar unsatisfactory conversations many years before with Woody's mother came back to him.

"Oh, Mary Jane wants me to go to somebody's birthday party, and now she's mad because I have to take Cindy Lou out for a fast run."

Mr. Hartford took off his glasses and looked at his son strangely. It was as if he had suddenly discovered a completely new aspect of his character.

"Cindy Lou is Woody's hot rod," Mrs. Hartford explained, and his father relaxed.

"Oh," he grunted. There were times when he realized that Woody lived in a world completely different from his own, and this was one of them.

"Never mind," said Mrs. Hartford comfortingly. "Mary Jane's a sensible girl. She'll see things in their right light after a while. Your father and I had many misunderstandings before we were married."

"Yes," said Woody gloomily. "But there wasn't a Bob Peters with a yellow Buick convertible hanging around in the background."

"As I recall it," said Mr. Hartford, "there was a young medical student by the name of Saunders who drove a Stutz Bearcat. But for my happy intervention, my boy, you might be the son of a doctor, devoting your life to the dissection of frogs."

Mrs. Hartford laughed, and for a moment she seemed, even to Woody, a young girl.

Woody was up at four in the morning and met Steve and Worm at the garage. Steve had brought two stop watches as promised, and everything was ready, including the sandwiches that Mrs. Hartford had prepared for the three of them. It took six hours in the Dodge to get to the Mojave salt lake where Cindy Lou was to undergo her trials. Nobody else was there, and during the last-minute preparations for the first run even Worm seemed a little nervous. The cold spark plugs were put in after Worm had gapped them properly; Woody drained the fuel from Cindy Lou's tank and poured in his special dope.

When all was ready, Woody got into the hot rod, which, after a complaining cough and a whirr or two, fired up.

"Sure," said Woody. "It's on the floor." He buckled it around him and squirmed into as comfortable a position as possible behind the wheel.

"Everybody knows what he's got to do?" he said. "Steve, you stand by the starting line. Worm's going to be at the half-mile mark. Don't watch me. Watch Worm. The moment I start to move, press the stop watch. When I pass the half-mile mark, Worm will bring down the checkered flag. Stop the watch right then. Maybe we ought to try it a couple of times to see if everybody understands."

He made two trial runs, not pressing Cindy Lou but giving her a chance to warm up. Everything went as planned.

"Swell," said Woody, "this time it's for real. Ready?" Steve nodded, and Woody brought Cindy Lou to the starting line. He stopped her dead, and then, with a slight nod of his head, slipped her in low and stepped on the gas. The take-off flung him back against the seat. The flat salt bed of the desert sped beneath him like a gleaming white ribbon. Woody looked at the speedometer. Forty-five. Fifty. Fifty-five. Sixty. Sixty-five. He slammed the clutch down and flung the gearshift back toward him. Cindy Lou seemed to leave the ground in a clean leap forward. Woody grinned. Smooth as silk and swift as an arrow. Boy what a rod, he thought. He hardly saw Worm as he flashed by. It took him a mile across the salt flats to slow down. When he got back Steve said, "Twenty seconds."

"That's an average of ninety miles an hour over the half mile from a standing start," said Woody. "Man, she goes like a bird. But she ought to do better than that. This time I'll really pour the coal to her."

The second run showed an average of ninety-two miles an hour from the standing start.

"Try her over the mile," Steve suggested. "Then you can see what she'll do when she has time to get rolling."

Woody waited until Worm had driven out to the mile mark in the Dodge and waved his flag to show he was ready. Then he took off again. This time he decided that he'd wind Cindy Lou up real tight in low as fast as he could, and jam her into high with his foot all the way down on the accelerator. The hot rod fled down the salt flat with a defiant snarling roar. For the split second when she was in neutral between gear shifts, it seemed to Woody she would shake herself to pieces. Then he flipped her into high and again experienced that clean lancing forward as the gear took hold.

With the accelerator all the way down it seemed as if Worm and the ground he stood upon were being flung toward him. Then, from the engine by his side, came a strange and ominous sound. It started as nothing more than a heavy knocking but in seconds was as if forty blacksmiths were beating on a boiler with sledge hammers. Cindy Lou slowed down so fast that it seemed as if her brakes had seized. Woody slipped her into neutral and turned off the ignition. The clanging and hammering stopped immediately.

"Turn her over," said Worm. Woody pressed the starter, and the grinding and banging started immediately. Worm got down and looked under Cindy Lou.

"Connecting rod," he said. "A piece of it has come clear through the pan. Yere oil's leaking oot. Worse than that. It must have broken through the cylinder wall. There's water wi' the oil."

He looked at Woody and decided not to say anything more. There was nothing more that could be said. Cindy Lou was a wreck. She'd need a completely new engine if she was ever to run again.

Woody was so depressed after Cindy Lou threw a connecting rod during the trial runs at the salt lakes that neither Worm nor Steve could do or say anything to cheer him up. It is possible that Mary Jane might have been able to remove his depression, for part of it at least stemmed from the quarrel between them. But if Mary Jane knew anything of Woody's troubles, she left him severely alone. Woody heard through Steve that she was going around with Bob Peters, and he wondered at times whether he ought not to go around to Bob Peters and punch him on the nose.

"I'd sure feel a lot better," he told Steve, "if I punched him right in the snoot."

Steve was somewhat undersized, a freckled, sandy-haired youth who was growing a mustache distinguishable only because it made him look as though there was something wrong with his upper lip.

"You might feel better right when you punched him," Steve said. "But one second later you might not feel so good. That Peters is a pretty big guy."

"Just a sack of hog fat," said Woody savagely. "Coming right here with my girl so she could see me handing over the ten bucks to him that I was supposed to take her out with."

"Well, maybe he did," said Steve. "But you gotta admit it was you who made the deal."

"Yours, pal," said Steve. "But you won't get anywhere blaming other people for what you did. Anyway, that's all over. Did you take the head off Cindy Lou and see how much damage had been done?" For answer Woody reached up to a shelf above his work bench and threw Steve a piston. Part of a connecting rod was fastened to it, but it was snapped off in the middle and twisted like a stick of liquorice.

"You should look at the cylinder," said Woody. "There's a hole in the cylinder wall big enough for an elephant to get through." He led Steve over to a corner of the garage where the engine block of Cindy Lou lay on the floor. There was a rent in one of the cylinder walls and deep score marks on two others.

"Jeepers, I know what caused it," said Woody. "The connecting rod snapped in that cylinder, and I busted some rings in those other two. That's what caused it."

"Don't get sore, pal," said Steve. "I know that's what caused it. Any kid in the block can tell you that. But why did the connecting rod pop? What does Worm say?"

"He says it popped because it wasn't according to Davie's Problems and Principles of Internal Combustion Engines," snarled Woody.

"That's right," said Worm coming up unexpectedly. "There's a sweet little chapter in there that will tell ye all aboot it. Noo, frae the look of that I'd say that yere crankshaft was no properly in balance—just enough to set up a bit of a whip in yon connecting rod. Though it's possible the metal was a mite tired. Ye're lucky it did'na go clean through the block and spray ye wi' scalding water and hot oil. But dinna worrit. Nae doot one day ye'll get another and do the same foolish thing all over again."

Woody, however, for the time being had had enough of hot rods. Every time he looked at Cindy Lou or at the engine block lying disconsolate on the garage floor, he felt sick. In the end, he decided to sell what he could of her. He'd spent a total of four hundred dollars on the car, not counting innumerable hours of his own labor. Disposed of piecemeal, he got back eighty, reselling the carburetor manifold to Bob Peters for eight dollars. He wasn't very happy when he heard that Bob sold it a week later for much more.

With the eighty dollars he decided that he'd better try to patch things up with Mary Jane. The point was, should he buy her a present and call on her, or should he telephone her and get a date and then turn up with a present?

He decided to telephone, and it was just as well, because she wasn't in. She wasn't in when he called the next day either, though her mother, Mrs. Jackson, sounded encouraging.

"I think she'll be in in a few minutes," she said. "Mary Jane just went down to the library."

"Gee, is she still reading those swell Huxley books?" asked Woody, determined to ingratiate himself wherever he might.

"Huxley?" said Mrs. Jackson. "No. It's not Huxley, Woody. The last book she had was called, I think, The Philosophy of Salesmanship. She's become very interested in selling lately. Last night she gave her father quite a questioning on whether he was carrying sufficient insurance."

The next day Steve called him up. Steve was worried about Woody's attitude, which was very gloomy, and had devised a plan that he hoped would cheer him up.

"Listen," he said. "Got a real good deal for us. There's a tech inspection for the sports cars for the Torrey Pines race tonight. How about going along? Lots of cars of all kinds. Ferraris, Maseratis, Austin Healeys, Jags, TR2's. What d'ya say?"

"There isn't enough horsepower in any one of them to go over a cardboard box without changing gears," said Woody scornfully.

"I got news for you," said Steve. "One of the Type D Jags at the Le Mans race recently developed two hundred and eighty-five horsepower with a two hundred and ten cubic-inch engine. And it was running on just plain old gasoline. You know any hot rods can do that?"

"Well, you want to come and see these little bugs, or aren't you interested in anything that hasn't got an engine big enough to drive a tank?"

"Just a minute," said Woody. "What kind of a deal is this? I haven't got any transportation."

"I know you haven't, pal," replied Steve. "But if you're going, you can talk Worm into taking us there. Tell him every one of these cars was built by a guy who studied under Davie that wrote the book on internal combustion engines. S'long."

Worm, however, was strangely hesitant about going to the technical inspection. He displayed an odd mixture of keenness and reluctance, as if half of him was excited at the prospect and half of him deeply disturbed. His long fingers trembled slightly as he lit his cigarette, and it took him two matches to achieve the task.

"Och," he said finally, looking queerly at Woody, "I wish ye'd said naething of it tae me."

Woody thought that Worm was merely reluctant to take them there in his car but, priding himself on the generosity of the Highland Scots, did not wish to appear stingy.

"Gee, Worm," he said, "if you don't want to take the Dodge, Steve and I can find some other way of getting there."

"It's nae that, laddie," replied Worm, remarkably serious even for him. "It's nae that at all. It's something I had put oot of my mind a long time ago, and I dinna ever want it to come back again. And here it is." In his distress his Scots brogue grew thicker. Woody couldn't make any sense at all of what he was saying.

Woody returned to his work of grinding valves, a task that demanded all his care. By the time he was done, he had all but forgotten his date with Steve and his strange conversation with Worm. Indeed it was nearly time to close down the shop, and it was Worm who reminded him of his appointment.

"Meet me here after dinner," he said. "I'll take ye tae the tech inspection. It's a thing I must do."

After dinner he was back at the garage to find Worm there dressed in a clean suit of coveralls. He had a box of tools with him, and Woody was surprised that he hadn't changed into his ordinary clothing and should have the tools with him. However, he said nothing to him about it. On the way, Steve did most of the talking. He explained that the inspection had two main purposes. The first was to see that all the sports cars entered for the race were in perfect mechanical condition. Every feature would be checked for safety, from the seal of the gas-tank cap to the amount of tread on the tires.

"Man," he said, "they really give them the works on that safety check. They go over everything with a fine-tooth comb—safety belts, brakes, brake lights in the rear, steering-wheel play, anything dangling underneath that might give trouble—they don't miss a thing. I've seen guys ruled out because their spare tires were a little worn. It's kind of hard to get tires for some of those foreign jobs in a hurry."

The second purpose of the inspection was to ensure that cars racing "stock," that is, without any changes from the factory model, hadn't been secretly souped up in some way to give the driver an advantage over his rivals.

"You take air filters," he said. "If the factory in England or France puts a particular kind of air filter on the car, that's the one it's got to race with. The same kind of filter may be available over here. Looks the same and does the job no better and no worse. But if it isn't the factory filter, the car can't race as a stock model."

"Heck," said Woody disgusted, "if they can't soup them up, what fun is it? Any stock car will turn in about the same performance as another from the same factory."

"Tuning, driving skill, experience, and guts, that's what makes the difference," said Steve. "Wait until you see these babies race. It isn't like Indianapolis, where they just go round in a circle as hard as they can lick. Once you get into high gear at Indianapolis, you stay there until the race is over. These boys race on tracks that are full of hairpin bends, S-bends, and right-angle corners. They have to know when to shift down and when to shift up. They have to know how to shoot a blind corner so as to skid round it and still stay on the track. It's no game for sissies. You get into a hairpin with a cloud of Jags and Ferraris steaming around you and about three inches to maneuver in, and you learn how to say your prayers all over again."

It was not hard to find the building in which the technical inspection was being held. The streets for several blocks around were jammed with sports cars of every make. It was as if some kind of automobile carnival was being held. There was a tenseness and excitement in the air that was infectious. From being slightly scornful of all the proceedings, Woody found himself increasingly interested in the cars and the people who drove them, and a little ashamed of his previous "Mickey Mouse" label.

With Steve he sauntered over to a green MG whose owner was screwing an air filter in place. He was surprised at the size of the engine. It didn't look powerful enough to run a lawn mower.

"With that?" asked Woody in surprise, pointing to the little four-cylinder engine.

"Sure," replied the owner. "Never seen one of these babies before, huh? What do you drive?"

"Me, too," replied the other. "But when I found out about these I switched. That little engine there has a displacement of just under fifteen hundred cc.'s—"

"Cubic centimeters. One thousand cc.'s is sixty-one cubic inches. In other words, with a displacement of around ninety cubic inches, she develops sixty-five horsepower. That's darn close to three quarters of a horsepower for every cubic inch of piston displacement. Not bad, huh?"

"Some of the Jags will turn out one point three six hp. per cubic inch," the MG owner said. "That's on gasoline. That's better than those Offeuhausers do at Indianapolis using gas, alcohol, and nitro."

"Let's go look at some of the Jags and Ferraris," said Steve. "Say, what happened to Worm?"

"Probably crawling around under one of these buggies," said Woody. "I don't think he's ever really happy unless he's got crankcase oil dripping in his face. He brought his tools along."

They pushed their way over through a tangle of cars, drivers, and mechanics. The cars looked mostly like toys to Woody, but he had an increasing respect for them. Worm was talking excitedly to the other man. The two seemed to be old friends, and this surprised Woody, for he hadn't known that Worm had any close friends, particularly in sports-car circles.

"Gee," the stranger was saying as they approached, "I haven't clapped eyes on you in ten years. What are you doing with yourself these days?"

The stranger looked at him in silence for a minute. There seemed to be some understanding between the two of them that Woody could not fathom.

"Like you tae meet me friends," Worm said, catching sight of them and breaking the awkward silence. "Woody Hartford and Steve Phillips. Meet Captain Jim Randolph."

"Randy for short," said the stranger, holding out his hand. Randy was one of the smallest men Woody had ever met. He was slim, fair-haired, and almost boyish in appearance. There were wrinkles of humor around his blue eyes, and he sported a mustache that would have done credit to a guardsman. Woody guessed that he was British—either Canadian or English.

"You the same Captain Randolph that drove with the Morgan team in the last Le Mans?" asked Steve.

"Something absolutely new," he said. "I was awfully lucky to get it. It's the only one in the country, and none of them have been raced before. Come along and take a look." Without waiting for a reply, he led them down the road to the back of a large building where the technical inspection was being held. There was a crowd of drivers and mechanics gathered around a car parked in the rear of the building, and it was difficult to get through them. When they did, Woody found himself looking at an automobile like something out of the next century.

The body was gleaming black, and the hood shaped like the nose of a shark. There was no radiator, the big wheels had wire spokes, and the dashboard had so many instruments on it that it looked like the cockpit of an airplane. Randy pushed his way to the back, the drivers and mechanics around making room for him, and opened what should have been the luggage compartment.

"Rear-opposed engine, air cooled, twelve cylinders, four thousand cc.'s. Develops three hundred horsepower at just under six thousand revolutions per minute," he said.

"She's made by Milano of Italy, and she's called the Black Tiger," Randy replied.

Woody sighed. Here was a real dream car. No other car could ever take its place for him. But he would never have anything to do with it, let alone drive it. The thought left him vaguely unhappy.

There are certain cars that those who love automobiles fall in love with at first sight. The Black Tiger was just such a car for Woody. For the next few days he could do little but think of it. He longed to be associated with it, even in the humblest way. He would have cheerfully washed and polished the Black Tiger for nothing more than the privilege of being able to look it over in detail, from the small compact wicked-looking power plant in the rear to the sable tiger emblem, set on a field of silver on the front of the hood.

It would have been heaven to be behind the wheel of the Black Tiger, a racing helmet and goggles on his head, taking her down the straightaway of a race track at full throttle.

He besieged Worm with questions about the Black Tiger, and Worm told him a great deal about European sports cars of all kinds. Worm seemed to be familiar with every kind of car that had ever been manufactured, and Woody was abashed to discover that in Worm's opinion the kind of mechanical work they were doing in the garage was closer, as he put it, to butchery than surgery.

"These buckets o' bolts don't call for a real mechanic," Worm said. This so annoyed Woody that he protested American cars were acknowledged the finest in the world.

"Aye," said Worm, "for what they're built for—plenty of horsepower so ye don't have to change gear, fast getaway, and enough springing for a feather bed. Ye can no beat them there. But they'll no take a sharp corner fast. They carry aboot a ton of chrome fittings just tae make them look pretty. They'll nae gie ye more than twelve or fourteen miles tae a gallon of gas. Hoot mon. Do ye call it engineering when somebody builds a two-ton car to take a two-hundred-pound man tae work?"

That quieted Woody for a while, and he went back to his dream of the Black Tiger.

In the meantime, Mary Jane was beginning to find that the philosophy of salesmanship and the company of Bob Peters left something to be desired as a steady diet. It was fun, to be sure, to drive around town in a yellow Buick convertible with the wind whipping through her dark, curly hair. Bob had taken her out three times since their first date and each time for the kind of adult evening that she wished Woody would get interested in. The first time he'd taken her to a nice quiet place where there wasn't a juke box (always a mark of sophistication for Mary Jane) and then to a lecture at the civic auditorium. The lecture was given by the sales manager of a big rubber company, and he had discussed selling techniques for an hour and a half.

Bob had spent the hour and a half taking notes in a black notebook with his name in gold letters on the front of it. Mary Jane was slightly piqued because he hadn't said anything about her hair, which she had fixed specially for the evening. But she reminded herself that she was being childish and told Bob that she had found the lecture very exciting.

This had the effect of encouraging Bob to invite her to two more evenings of a similar nature. At one of them, a personnel manager had discussed factors in the making of young executives. Bob took notes on that too. At another, an advertising manager had discussed the results of an experiment in which five hundred people had been sent circulars in which they were promised a dollar if they returned the circular with their names and addresses on it.

The only bright point in that lecture was that somebody had apparently collected twenty copies of the circular from other people's trash barrels and so got twenty dollars for himself.

When, therefore, Bob called her again with a proposal to hear a visiting psychologist lecture on "Egotism as a Factor in Sales Resistance," she decided she had had enough and said she was busy.

"I just don't know what's the matter with men," she said putting the phone down. "When Woody takes me out, all he does is talk about cars. And when Bob takes me out, he keeps trying to improve my mind. Isn't there anybody who will take me out just because I'm me?"

"Didn't Daddy ever take you out just for you before you were married?" Mary Jane asked.

"Didn't he take you dancing, or for a ride in a horse and buggy in the moonlight?"

Mrs. Jackson put down her iron and contemplated her daughter. "Horse and buggy!" she said. "How old do you think I am? Your grandmother probably went on dates in a horse and buggy. I went in my car. It was a Chrysler two-seater—one of the first they ever produced. And, young lady, I owned it. Sometimes I used to think that your father dated me just to drive the car. He said when we were married he'd buy me a much better one."

"No, dear," her mother replied. "He bought me a house full of furniture. It was much more practical. But anyway, if you're not doing anything this evening and you want to, why don't you call up Woody?"

"Oh, Mother, I can't," said Mary Jane. "We're not speaking. Besides, he's probably busy with his silly old hot rod."

"Do you really think I ought to call him?" Mary Jane asked. "Sometimes we used to have a lot of fun together. Though he's so boyish."

Mrs. Jackson still remained silent, and Mary Jane said, "I wonder if he's still at the garage?" She went to the phone and dialed the number.

Woody was so surprised by the call that he could only answer Mary Jane's seemingly very casual questions in nonsyllables. He said yes he was feeling well, and no he hadn't been sick. He almost let Mary Jane hang up before he recovered himself sufficiently to ask her for a date. And when he came away from the phone, he was grinning as he hadn't grinned since he sold the wreckage of Cindy Lou.

"Nae doot ye'd like a leetle advance on yer pay," Worm went on. "Or are ye fixed for money? I could let ye have maybe a dollar."

"Weel," said Worm, "dinna spend a lot on her. Them that takes yere money aren't the housekeeping kind."

When Woody called for Mary Jane he had the whole evening planned. He'd borrowed his father's car—a '54 Merc—and was dressed in the dark blue suit that Mary Jane liked. He had spent half an hour cleaning the grease from under his fingernails, and passing a drugstore, had had the happy inspiration to buy a box of candy.

Mary Jane kept him waiting for only twenty minutes. When she appeared she looked slimmer and more vivacious and more attractive than Woody ever remembered. She was not an exceptionally pretty girl but had a certain grace to her ways and walk that completely captivated Woody. Her nose was perhaps a little too snub for perfection, but her dark brown eyes, set wide apart, gave her a frankness of expression that was especially appealing.

"Hi, Woody," she said as she entered. "Sorry to keep you waiting. My hair just wouldn't stay in place this evening." Woody glanced at her hair, thick, dark, and curly, and didn't mind the twenty minutes of thumb twiddling in the Jackson living room.

When they were in the car, he suggested that they go to Merton's for dinner. Unfortunately Merton's was the place to which Mary Jane had been with Bob Peters, and she now associated it with a certain amount of boredom.

"We could eat there and then go to the civic auditorium," he suggested. "There's somebody giving a lecture there on something to do with psychology. I thought you'd like to hear it." Woody had been briefed on tactics by Steve, who knew that Mary Jane had developed a passion recently for lectures.

"Woody Hartford," said Mary Jane. "If you mention the word 'lecture' to me again, I won't speak to you all evening."

They went instead to the College Try, a place halfway between a soda fountain and a restaurant. It had a juke box, and Mary Jane played all the new swing records she could find, and they danced. Woody decided that Steve had given him a bum steer, but he didn't mind. He was having a wonderful time, and Mary Jane was even more vivacious and attractive than usual. She even asked him about Cindy Lou, and Woody told her that it had blown up and he'd sold what was left of the hot rod.

If he'd been a little more observant, he'd have noticed that there was the tiniest expression of satisfaction and even victory on Mary Jane's face when she got this news. But Woody went on to describe how he'd gone to the tech inspection and seen the Black Tiger. And when he talked about the Black Tiger, it was with such enthusiasm and devotion that Mary Jane realized Cindy Lou had merely been replaced by another rival.

"I don't see what you get out of all this car business," she said a little pettishly. "It's all so boyish. You just work in grease and dirt all day long and then you take a car to a race track and perhaps drive it two or three miles an hour faster than anyone else. And that's all you get for your pains."

"Oh, it's a lot more than that," said Woody. "There are things in it that are hard to explain. There's making an engine work better. It gives you a sense of having done something. And there's challenge to it. And some danger. And there's a feeling of belonging to a bunch of really good guys. It's exciting all the time. Look. Steve and I are going to the road races at Torrey Pines near San Diego next weekend. It's a two-day event—Saturday and Sunday. And the Black Tiger will be racing for the first time in America. Why don't you come along? You'd really get a kick out of it. I know you would."

"Worm's going," said Woody, "and he'd take care of you. Your Mother and Dad both know him. And Randy will be there." He launched into an enthusiastic description of Captain Randolph that made it quite clear that the owner of the Black Tiger was now Woody's hero.

Mr. Jackson was at first reluctant to let Mary Jane go to the Torrey Pines race. But Mrs. Jackson came to her daughter's aid.

"She's almost eighteen," she said, "and you've just got to get used to the idea that she's very nearly grown up. She isn't a child any longer."

"Young people these days haven't any sense," grunted Mr. Jackson. "I'm just concerned about whether she'll get hurt at the races. That's all."

"Well, she could just as easily get hurt crossing the main street here," said Mrs. Jackson.

"Oh, all right," said Mr. Jackson, who had suddenly recalled that his grandmother came West in 1865 in a wagon train at the age of fifteen. Secretly he realized he was rather pleased at his daughter's enterprise. It would be something to mention casually at the club next time Wilson mentioned his son's speedboat.

The Torrey Pines Road Race shaped up even better than Woody had expected. He and Steve had proposed to pay their own admission, which would not have allowed them to mix with the cars and their drivers in the pits where the cars were serviced and given emergency repairs. But on the Wednesday before the event, there was an unexpected development.

Woody was busy installing a new set of points on a V-8 on one side of the garage when he heard the deep throbbing note of a car pulling into the garage. It was not an engine he had heard before, and he looked up quickly from his work. There was the Black Tiger and Randy stepping out of the seat without going through the formality of opening the door.

"I've worked with Worm nearly two years. But I studied automotive engineering for three years at night school."

Worm had by now come out of his office, where he was totaling up the day's business with a stub of a pencil in a notebook whose pages were gray with greasy thumb marks. It was an invariable practice of his.

"Got a job for you," said Randy. "I didn't want to bring it anywhere else because I think you're the only mechanic in this area who can tackle it. I've tried a couple of other places, but the Tiger is so new I'm not quite satisfied that they can do the work. It takes the kind of special training that you have."

"Basically it's a matter of tuning," said Randy. "She's not tuned right. We've been working on her all week, and she's sluggish at around fifty-eight hundred rpm. That's just where I need to get real power. What do you think?"

"I can do it," said Worm for false modesty was not one of his vices. "But it'll take all day. I'll have tae shut doon on all me other work tomorrow if the job's tae be done right."

"You couldn't work on it tonight, could you?" asked Randy. "I'd like to get her tuned really fine and then try her out sometime tomorrow to make sure everything's super. The race is the day after."

"Aye," said Worm. "We can work taenight for old time's sake. I'll close the shop tomorrow, anyway. Woody, can ye stay and help a bit, laddie?"

Woody said he could with such enthusiasm that Randy smiled. They closed the garage doors after driving the Black Tiger into the building, and in the overhead electric light the car gleamed sleek, powerful, exciting, and yet oddly menacing. The thought occurred to Woody that here was a car it would take a real driver to master. It seemed to have almost the spirit of a pedigreed stallion. With the right, sure touch at the controls, it would perform obediently. But any unsureness, any hesitation, and the car would master the driver.

Randy lifted the engine cowling in the back, and they set to work. Woody could follow most of what the two were doing easily enough. They checked the distributor, coil, points, spark-plug gaps, and timing. All were in tiptop shape. Tappets, tiny as toys, were checked also and proved to be correctly adjusted.

Then Worm did something that Woody had never seen before. He went to his own tool kit, which he always kept locked, and brought it over. He opened it up, and inside lay his tools, each contained in a velvet covering and glittering like the operating instruments of a surgeon. He took out the two top trays and laid them carefully on a cloth on the workbench. From the bottom of the toolbox he extracted a stethoscope such as doctors use for chest examinations. Woody nearly laughed. Worm with the stethoscope around his neck, dressed in his soiled coveralls, looked like a caricature of a mad doctor.

Randy turned on the ignition and pressed the starter button, and the Black Tiger purred contentedly to herself.

"Rev her oop tae five thousand," said Worm. The Black Tiger snarled in anger and impatience as Randy pressed the accelerator down. Worm put the stethoscope to his ears and the listening apparatus to the carburetor intake pipe. How he could hear anything above the deep roar of the engine Woody could not understand. But Worm was listening as intently as any doctor to the chest of a tuberculous patient. He raised a long finger in the air, and Randy depressed the accelerator further. The Black Tiger's roar was now such that it seemed it must bring down the building. Worm nodded and took off the stethoscope as the roar of the engine died to a quiet purr again.

"It's as I thought," he said. "She's no breathing right around five thousand eight hundred. The air's no ramming through as it should. It's a delicate matter, and I hae me doots whether we can fix it."

"Aye," said Worm. He saw the mystified look on Woody's face and explained. "It's a matter of using air pulsations tae shoot air through the intake port and suck it oot of the exhaust. I've not got the time tae explain it further. Ye'd find it in Davie if ye ever looked. But it's controlled by the size and contour o' the intake and exhaust ports. It's like using the air as a supercharger for itself."

Woody now began to understand what Worm had meant when he talked about the difference between butchery and surgery in servicing automobiles.

"I'm thinking," Worm said to Randy, "that if the intake ports were polished a bit it might do the trick."

Worm bent over to look. "Somebody installed the wrong gaskets," he said, straightening up. "Yon gaskets are too thick. A sixteenth of an inch will make a difference."

He took the intake manifold off and found two gaskets had been used on them in place of one. Then he took off the exhaust headers and found the same. When they fired up the Black Tiger once more, and Worm listened to her breathing with his stethoscope, he smiled his approval.

That, however, was not the end of the evening's, or rather the night's, work. Worm went over every detail of the engine, working slowly but expertly, and Woody's job was mostly to listen and supply cups of hot coffee. He had called up his mother to explain he would be home late, but it was nearly one in the morning before Worm pronounced himself satisfied.

"Ye can try her out tomorrow," Worm said to Randy, "and if there's any further trouble, bring her in and we'll tickle her again tomorrow night."

"Look," said Randy to Worm, "I don't know whether I can swing this, but I've got a vacancy on my pit crew. One of my men is sick. In any case I'd sooner you worked in the pit than he. Do you think you can do it for me—as a favor for old time's sake?"

To Woody's surprise, Worm hesitated. He himself would have jumped at the opportunity of being one of the crew of mechanics who would service the Black Tiger during the racing. But Worm seemed loath to take the job. Then Randy said something that surprised Woody.

"You've got to get over that, Worm," he said. "It was a long time ago. You've got to turn round and face it, and you might as well do it with your friends."

Worm didn't reply immediately. Woody sensed that there was a great deal of tension in the moment, and that Worm was being asked to make some critical decision in his life. Worm fished into the breast pocket of his coveralls for a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and lit it, his hands trembling slightly.

"I made oop me mind fifteen years ago to hae nae more tae doo with it," Worm said.

"That was the wrong decision," said Randy calmly, "and you know it. The only way you can get it straightened out is to get back into the game again. Otherwise you'll spend the rest of your life with this thing in the background." Both seemed to have forgotten Woody's presence.

"I won't think any less of you if you refuse," Randy said slowly. "I could never think any less of you, Worm. You've done too many splendid things. But let me put it this way. If you accept, then you're an even bigger man than I thought you were."

Worm took a long drag on his cigarette and looked at Woody for the first time during the conversation. There was a softness in his eyes, and quite suddenly Woody felt a great warmth for both Worm and Randy.

Randy didn't say anything. He just grinned and gave Worm a firm little punch in the chest, and Worm looked a little foolish.

Woody, Mary Jane, Steve, and Worm went down to San Diego in the Dodge, starting early on Friday morning. In San Diego they met Randy and all had dinner together. Mary Jane said afterward that Randy was the most fascinating man she had ever met. Certainly he was an excellent talker, full of wit and optimism. Perhaps in deference to Mary Jane, he didn't limit the conversation to racing and racing cars but spoke as readily of the different countries of Europe, with an anecdote to adorn each of them, as a man would speak of his own home town.

He talked of sailing on Lake Geneva, in Switzerland, and of the mistrals, or sudden winds, coming out of the mountains, which made the sport dangerous; of the Casino at Monaco and the Tivoli gardens in Copenhagen. All in all he enchanted everybody, so that Mary Jane wanted to know all about him and both Steve and Woody made him number one on their hero list.

Woody noticed when dinner was over that Randy was a little awkward in getting out of his chair. He thought nothing of it at the time, but the detail had not escaped Mary Jane.

When they returned to their motel and Randy had left them, Mary Jane turned to Worm and asked, "Has Randy got something the matter with his legs?"

"Ye're a noticing young body," said Worm. "His legs are all right, but he's only got five toes."

"Aye," said Worm. "He lost his right foot about fifteen years ago. But it doesn't trouble his driving, and he walks without a limp. I've no doot it took him a lot of practice. There was some talk of barring him from racing, but he proved he's as good a driver as men wi' two feet of their own. He has a cupboard full of trophies won all over Europe. But this is the first time he's racing in America."

"You mean he's racing an unknown car on a course he's never seen before and with only one foot?" cried Woody.

"Hoot, mon," said Worm, "I mind the time he climbed the Matterhorn in the avalanche season wi' the same one foot. It comes to me that yon Randy wouldna enjoyed himself half as much if he had both his feet. He's a mon that likes a challenge."

Woody, Mary Jane, and Steve were out at the track early the following morning after a hurried breakfast. Worm and Randy went out in the Black Tiger together, and Woody took Worm's Dodge. They would not see each other until the day's racing was over because Woody and Randy would be in the pit area while they would have to stay behind the low fence of wood slats, called a snow fence, which separated the track from the spectators.

The track looked in shape like a wire loop that had been badly mangled. From the starting line, there was about four hundred yards of straightaway. Then a right-angle left turn, followed after two hundred yards by a hairpin bend to the right. There were a series of S-turns, another right angle, and another hairpin, though not as acute as the first. Then a straightaway of about three-quarters of a mile, followed by two more right-angle turns, and so back to the starting position to complete the first lap.

All the turns were numbered on the map and there were ten in all. The track was just under three miles.

"We ought to try to get over to that first hairpin," said Steve. "That's where we'll see the fun. Say," he said turning to a man standing nearby, "how do you get to turn number two?"

"Butcher Bend?" said the stranger laconically. "Right over by that clump of eucalyptus. You'd better hurry, though, if you want to get a good place."

They had hardly got there when a loud-speaker over their heads said in a peculiarly flat and distorted voice, "Attention all drivers and pit crews. There'll be a drivers' meeting by the judges' stand in ten minutes. All those competing in the first event for cars under fifteen hundred cc.'s please have somebody there. You must get this briefing to learn the rules of the course." The message was repeated.

"To tell them about the flags and the rules of racing," replied Steve. "For instance, if a flagman waves a black flag to a driver, it means that he has to go round to the pit area and get out of the race."

"Any number of reasons," said Steve. "His car might be leaking gas on the track, which is real dangerous, or he might be driving so badly as to be a danger to the other drivers, or he might have deliberately fouled somebody. You can't just get into one of these cars and drive it as fast as you want without regard for anybody else. It's a real risky business, and even with every safety precaution that can be taken, fellows crack up."

"Today," the announcer said, "we have an event of very great importance to West Coast racing and to road racing in the United States. A new Italian car of revolutionary design will make its first appearance on this track this morning. This is the first time that this car, the Black Tiger, has ever been raced anywhere in the world. And it's being driven by none other than the owner, Captain Jimmy Randolph, who has competed in three of the Le Mans events in France and is one of Europe's best drivers. Randy, how about saying a word to the folks?"

"Hush," said Mary Jane, though this was quite unnecessary, for both Woody and Steve were standing stock-still listening.

"I'm very happy to be here," said Randy over the loud-speaker. "This is a really sporting course, and I'm looking forward to an enjoyable day."

"We'll know more about them at the end of the race than we do now before it's started," Randy replied. "I'm up against some hot competition, and whatever driver wins will deserve everybody's respect. There are eighteen other cars in the event—Jags, Ferraris, Maseratis, and a couple of Thunderbirds—and I'm going to have to keep my eye on every one of them."

"At this point, I'm worried about them all," replied Randy. "Some of the boys have raced against me at Le Mans. Tom Wisdom in Ferrari number four is tops, and so is Kurt Kreuger in his Jag—I think it's number six. But as I say, I'll have to keep my eye on everybody. They're all tiptop men driving fine cars."

"Isn't he wonderful?" said Mary Jane, and Steve and Woody nodded their agreement.

A few minutes later there came another announcement over the loud-speaker. "Attention in the spectator area," the announcer said. "Will Woody Hartford—that's W-o-o-d-y H-a-r-t-f-o-r-d—report immediately to gate three? Woody Hartford to gate three immediately."

"You, Woody Hartford?" a flagman who was standing on the track within earshot asked.

"O.K., get over the fence and cross the track. Gate three's right over there where all those cars are parked. By the big white building. Hustle, because they're going to close the track in a couple of minutes."

Woody scrambled over the fence and ran toward the white building as fast as he could. At gate three he found Worm waiting for him and very excited.

"Here," said Worm. "Sign this. It means that if you get hit or get hurt, you can't sue the race track or anybody." He put a mimeographed form before Woody. "Randy's other pit man didn't turn up," said Worm, "and I can no handle everything meself. We've got forty minutes tae get the Black Tiger ready, and because it's a new car, the officials are letting ye join the pit crew. Hurry, mon. Did they never teach ye tae sign yere name in thot silly school ye went tae?"

Woody scrawled his signature in indelible pencil on the bottom of the form, and the two sprinted over to the pit area where Randy stood, looking worried, beside the Black Tiger.

"Awfully glad you were able to come," he said. "Tape up my headlights for me, like a good lad." He threw Woody a roll of adhesive tape.

Woody glanced at the headlights of the Jag in the adjoining pit. They were covered completely with strips of adhesive tape. He guessed the reason was to prevent them being pitted by gravel flung up by the rear wheels of cars ahead in the race. He taped the Black Tiger's headlights in a similar way.

"Get the fenders now," said Worm, and Woody put overlapping strips of adhesive over the fore part of the Tiger's fenders.

"Can you help adjust these rear-vision mirrors?" said Randy when he was finished. "Just move them the way I tell you." The Black Tiger had three rear-vision mirrors, one on each front fender and one on the dashboard in front of the driver. They had to be adjusted so that by looking into them Randy could see the area around his two rear fenders and behind him.

By this time the first race for cars under fifteen hundred cc.'s had started. But Woody was so busy with the Black Tiger that he saw very little of it. Eventually all was done and only just in time.

"Cars for event number two, report to the starting grid," the loud-speaker instructed.

Worm pushed Woody into the seat beside Randy and climbed up on the deck behind the cockpit. From all around there rose a series of roars as Jags, Ferraris, Maseratis, Allards, and Thunderbirds eased out of their pits and slid slowly toward the starting area. The noise was deafening and exciting beyond expression. The cars seemed to be challenging each other, showing their strength like gladiators about to meet in a Roman arena.

In this mass of automobiles, some snorting, some purring, some roaring as drivers sought to keep spark plugs from fouling, the Black Tiger slid forward through the pits out to the paved court that formed the starting area. Positions for the start of the race had already been allocated. Only three cars could be placed abreast on the actual starting line. The others were lined up three abreast behind them. The Black Tiger's position was in the fourth row of cars, with a cloud of Jags and Ferraris ahead of her.

Randy, when he had the Tiger in position, buckled the strap of his crash helmet under his chin and pulled on a pair of pigskin gloves. The noise around was deafening. Woody was surprised to find himself trembling slightly with excitement. But Randy seemed completely calm. Worm walked around the Tiger making a last-minute inspection of the tires.

He nodded his head, finding them satisfactory. Woody was watching Randy, who had taken a casual look around at the cars behind and the cars ahead. Randy now cramped his front wheels hard over to the right, but did it without attracting attention. He caught Worm's eye, and Worm gave him a quick wink.

"Good luck," said Worm. Randy waved, and Worm signaled to Woody to leave the starting area and get themselves a position by the racing pits, which were right opposite the starting line.

"Just as soon as they drop the starting flag," Worm replied, "he'll be around that Jag in front of him and have only six cars ahead instead of nine. That is, if he's lucky."

Everything now became swiftly quiet. There was no more roaring from the pack of cars, whose drivers were tensely watching the starter. He, a rubber ball of a man, dressed in white pants with a multicolored shirt of violent pattern, was standing to one side with his back to the drivers. He had a flag in his hand and was casually scratching beneath his chin with the end of the stick. Suddenly he leaped into the air, his two hands above his head, and brought the flag down like a comic ballet dancer.

With a roar, almost of rage, the pack of cars leaped forward. Woody saw five of them flash by so fast that he couldn't even get a glimpse of the numbers, and then the Black Tiger sprang by screaming down to the right-angle bend a quarter of a mile away.

"Och, he's a bonny driver," said Worm, his face glistening with excitement. "Did ye see that, mon? They had him positioned eleventh, and he lopped off three cars right at the start." Woody was hardly listening. He was watching the Tiger, which flung after the cars ahead like a hound after deer. The first eight were in a bunch when they reached the corner. There were a series of roars as they changed down to negotiate the turn, and then they were gone, screaming up to the hairpin that lay ahead.

"Yon Butcher Bend is a bad one," said Worm. "I'm hoping he'll use mair care than courage in getting roond it."

Neither could see anything of the race now, though they could hear the roaring of the engines and the squeal of tires as the pack slid around the first hairpin.

It seemed less than a minute before the first of the cars appeared. It was Tom Wisdom, driving his big red Ferrari, with the figure 4 making a white splash on its side. After him, hardly a quarter length behind, came Kurt Kreuger in a blue Jag. Then a Thunderbird, number eleven, an Allard, another Jag, and then the Black Tiger.

The Jag ahead of Randy zipped by them with the Tiger on her tail. Then the driver changed down to get ready for the right-angle bend ahead. In that second, Randy slapped his foot down hard on the accelerator. There was a cry of "Oooo" from the spectators, and the Tiger flashed past the Jag.

Everybody strained forward to see what would happen. The Tiger snarled and swerved wide almost to the edge of the track. Then with a deep-throated roar, she clawed around the corner, her rear wheels skidding, and was off down the straightaway like a bolt.

"Did you see that?" someone next to Woody called excitedly. "He took the Jag and didn't change down until he was on the fifty-yard mark."

"Not that guy," put in another. "He's a real driver. When he gets into a car, he's part of the engine."

The voice of the announcer on the loud-speaker cut in, "Captain Randolph in the new Italian car, the Black Tiger, is now fourth," he said. "Ahead are Tom Wisdom in number four, a Ferrari; Kurt Kreuger, second, in his XK140 Jag; Pete Nevins in a blue Ferrari, number thirteen; and then Randolph. Randolph passed two cars ahead of him on two bends. The first on the right-angle bend, turn number one, right after the start-finish line, and the second, Fred Manini's Thunderbird on the hairpin. He's driving beautifully and is out to win. This looks like the battle of the day. The Black Tiger corners like a cat. But the Ferraris seem to be a match for her. It's nip and tuck all the way. This is a real driver's race."

The loud-speaker cut off, and Woody heard a cheer from the far side of the track.

"The Black Tiger just took Nevin's Ferrari on the S-bends," the announcer said. "Randolph is now third, battling to get ahead of Kreuger in his XK140 Jag. This is the same car that did so well in the last Le Mans race."

From far down the track three black bullets hurtled toward them. Wisdom was in the lead, about a car length ahead, with Kreuger behind him and then the Black Tiger. They swept by with a roar. The Tiger's front wheels were abreast of the rear wheels of the Jag. Randy was sitting back easily in his seat, as cool as if he were out for a Sunday afternoon drive. There was a slight smile on his face and not a suggestion of tenseness anywhere about him. Suddenly Randy changed down and dropped for a second behind the Jag. Then the Black Tiger leaped forward, and the two of them went into the corner abreast. Woody saw the Jag sliding crabwise toward the Tiger and held his breath, for it looked as if it would broadside into her. But the Jag clawed off when there was nothing but the thickness of a coat of paint between them. The two disappeared around the bend in a fury of acceleration, still abreast.

Now he had to await a report on the race through the announcer over the loud-speaker. It was not long in coming.

"Randolph's still fighting to get by Kreuger's XK140," he said. "He nearly made it at the right angle after the start-finish line but got crowded over. At the hairpin he dropped half a length behind. They're shooting the S-bends now neck and neck. Ah. Here it is! Randolph took those S-bends at full bore, pulling ahead of the Jag with inches between them. He must have been doing a hundred and forty. Now he's second with only Wisdom's Ferrari ahead, and battling for the lead."

The next two laps the Ferrari and the Black Tiger passed by in the same position. Wisdom knew all Randy's racing tricks and could anticipate them. The spectators had forgotten the rest of the field, only a few lengths behind, to concentrate on the two lead cars. It became obvious that the Ferrari had a quicker getaway and so could make up distance lost on the corners. But at every bend in the course, the Black Tiger was on her tail, worrying her, seeking for an opening to get through and take the lead.

Suddenly there was a roar from the crowd in the direction of Butcher's Bend. Woody looking over there could see what looked like a small cloud of smoke arising. Somebody spoke hurriedly to the flagman in front of him, and he stepped out onto the course waving a yellow flag.

An ambulance, its siren screaming, sped down the track in the direction of Butcher Bend. It was back in a few minutes, drove through the pit area and out onto the main road. Then the announcer said over the loud-speaker, "We regret to say there has been an accident at turn number two. The Black Tiger, driven by Captain Randolph, went out of control, and Captain Randolph has been taken to the hospital. It is not thought that he is badly hurt. We'll let you know his condition as soon as we get a report—"

In all its life, Worm's venerable Dodge had never done more than thirty-five miles an hour, but on the trip to the San Diego General Hospital, it made forty-five, protesting at every revolution of its engine.

When they got there, Woody had some difficulty convincing the receptionist they should be allowed to see Randy. "I can't do anything without the surgeon's permission," she said quietly though not without sympathy.

The receptionist gave a ghost of a smile. "Surgeons treat cuts as well as fractures and broken heads," she said. "You'll have to wait."

They waited an agonizing hour without any news at all. Then a young doctor came through, and the receptionist left her desk and spoke to him. The doctor came over to them.

"I see," said the surgeon. "Well, he says he has a daughter at this address. He'd like to see her. She's in San Diego apparently. Can one of you go and get her?"

"Well," said the doctor, "he's a lucky man. It's lucky for instance that he has an artificial foot. That was crushed. Had it been his real foot, the bone would have been splintered so badly we might have had to amputate at the knee. As it is, he has a leg fracture, a dislocated shoulder, and bad burns on the torso and thighs. He's a remarkable man. He should be suffering from shock and in need of sedatives. But his main concern is his car. Otherwise he's quite calm, and his mind is clear."

The doctor laughed. "If it happened to me, I'd call it very serious and give up racing for the rest of my life. Here's the address. He's anxious to see his daughter so she doesn't get any false reports on his condition."

Woody took the slip of paper, which had the address of an apartment house on Front Street in San Diego. Without asking Worm, he got into the Dodge and drove over there. On the way over, he kept thinking about the best way to break the news. When he arrived, he still had not reached a formula. He pressed the bell and when the door opened it is probable that even if Woody had memorized what to say, he would have forgotten it.

The girl who opened the door was about his age. She had red hair that looked like burnished copper. It was cut in a page boy and came down to her shoulders. She wore a black turtle-neck sweater and a skirt of a dark green material that spread out like a ballerina's from a tiny waist. Her skin was milk white, and her eyes had a trace of a teasing look in them.

"I'm Woody Hartford. I was working in the pit with your father at the races today."

"Oh," she said. Now Woody was stuck. He could find no appropriate words that would not alarm her. He decided to plunge on.

"He's not badly hurt, but he's been in an accident," Woody said. "The Black Tiger turned over and he's at the hospital and—"

"Wait until I get my coat," the girl interrupted. She dashed into the apartment and was back in a second, struggling into a white lamb's-wool half coat. She pushed past him and down the stairs with Woody in pursuit.

The girl gave it a brief glance. "We'll take mine," she said and ran to a red MG parked by the curb. Woody had just time to get in before she had started it and was speeding down the streets. Woody was surprised at the MG's acceleration and cornering ability. On the way to the hospital he told the girl all he knew of Randy's injuries. Sitting next to her, he realized that she was even prettier than he had thought at first glance. And she drove like a wizard, snaking surely through the traffic without a second's indecision.

At the hospital she was quickly admitted to the ward. Woody followed her to the door with Worm. He hadn't been invited but realized this was a good chance to find out how Randy really was and talk to him.

"Hi, Rocky," he replied. "Had a little bad luck. The Tiger went out of control and turned over on me, and I busted my leg. Got a few scratches as well but nothing much." The words were silently contradicted by the bandages that swathed the side of his head. He looked up and saw Woody and Worm standing at the door.

"Hard to say," replied Randy. "She behaved beautifully right up to the time of the accident. I'd just taken that right-angle turn right after the start-finish line and was going into the hairpin. I had an overlap on Tom in the Ferrari, and the steering went. Wheel just spun around loose in my hand. Luckily I was on the outside, otherwise I'd have hit the Ferrari. Instead I sideswiped a stack of hay bales and turned over. I hope the Tiger isn't too badly damaged. There was a small fire, but they put that out in a hurry."

Nobody said anything for a while. Then Randy said, "She handled like a dream. She's a beautiful car—the best I've ever driven. I don't see how she can fail to beat any competition that's offered her."

In all this time Worm had said nothing. Now, speaking very slowly, he said, "If ye've any sense in yere head, ye'll forget all aboot the Black Tiger and racing. This is the second time for ye. Yere luck is going tae run oot one of these days." But Randy only laughed.

A nurse came in then and shooed them all out of the room. Down in the lobby, Steve and Mary Jane were waiting. They'd come over after the accident, which had taken place within a hundred feet of where they were standing.

"Man," said Steve. "He's lucky to be alive. The Tiger rolled over on him twice and then caught fire. They had to put out the fire to get at him."

Mary Jane gave Woody a questioning look. "Oh," said Woody, "pardon me. I'd like you to meet Randy's daughter, Rocky." He made the introductions all around. It seemed to him that Mary Jane was a little cool with her "How do you do?" but Rocky didn't notice it.

She turned to Woody and said, "If you wish I'll drive you back so you can pick up your car. It was really sweet of you to come for me, and I'm very grateful."

"It was nothing," said Woody. He could feel himself blushing and was angry at his reaction.

"Well," said Rocky, "shall we go? I'm going to come back here and see whether I can talk them into letting me stay in Daddy's room. He'll need company, and maybe I can at least spend the night here."

The two went out to the MG together, and Woody felt the same sort of lowering of the temperature he had experienced when he called Mary Jane to say that he couldn't take her out because he'd spent his money on Cindy Lou.

When he got back, Mary Jane had gone to the motel with Steve, but Worm was waiting for him.

"We'll have tae go oot and get the Black Tiger," he said. "I've had a word wi' Randy aboot it, and he wants it towed to my garage. We'll take a look at it and see if it can be towed behind the Dodge."

They drove back to Torrey Pines then and found the Black Tiger had been taken to a service shed in the back of the pit area. Worm jacked her up and crawled underneath to inspect the steering linkage. He was there ten minutes, and when he came out he had a piece of shiny metal shaped like a large marble in his hand.

Woody stared at it. He'd never known of a steering knuckle breaking before. It might happen on an old car, but hardly on a new one.

Worm shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Car may have been dropped in shipping and yon knuckle slightly fractured. But there's some cars, laddie, that are just not built tae drive. They're man-killers. And it comes tae me noo that this is one of them."

Woody recalled the time he'd seen the Black Tiger in Worm's garage under the electric lights. There had been something menacing about it then.

"Horseradish," he said. "A car's a car. They haven't any feelings of their own."

"Maybe not," said Worm. "Yet I've known cars in my day that were never driven but they hurt or killed somebody." He looked almost with malevolence at the Black Tiger. "I'm wishing Randy had wrecked ye all together," he said with surprising feeling.

It was a month before Randy was able to get up to Hermosa Beach to see Worm and find out for himself what had been done on the Black Tiger. In that time, Woody had been down to San Diego twice to see him, and had seen quite a bit of Rocky too. In fact, he'd seen enough of her to become aware that Mary Jane, despite an elaborate unconcern, didn't approve of their meetings at all. He tried once to explain that since Rocky was Randy's daughter, he was likely to see her as well as her father when he went to San Diego, and that was all there was to it.

"You don't have to go driving around the city in that midget car of hers," Mary Jane said.

"It's a full-size MG TF," Woody said. "And if I get half a chance I'm going to race it."

"She's going to, in the women's races. But she said she'd let me drive it at Hansen Dam."

"Woody Hartford," said Mary Jane. "If you drive that car in a race, you can say good-by to me. I don't ever want to see you again."

Woody was thinking over this ultimatum when Randy came hobbling into the garage on crutches, with Rocky at his side.

"Hello," cried Randy as cheerfully as a wedding guest. "I see you're busy as usual. Where's my old friend Worm?"

"There," said Woody pointing under a big Buick. One thin foot of Worm's showed, revealing cotton socks of a pale lemon color. This foot wiggled a greeting, and Worm's voice came from underneath the automobile. "I'll be oot in a minute," he said. "When I get this bell housing back again."

"Just super," she said smiling back. "All ready for Hansen Dam. I sent in my forms last night. How about you?"

Rocky looked at him out of her teasing, half-mocking eyes. "You'd better hurry," she said. "You've only got two more days. Unless you'd prefer not to race."

"Oh, I want to race all right," said Woody. "I just didn't get around to it, that's all."

"I had her tuned yesterday," Rocky continued. "Purrs like a sewing machine. Daddy says she's in tiptop racing form right now. If you can get off for a minute, why don't you drive her around the block a couple of times? I could come with you." The last sentence was said very casually. But there was no escaping the invitation it contained.

"Gee," said Woody, "we're right in the middle of installing a clutch here. After work, if you're still around, I'd sure like to try her out."

Worm had by now slid from under the Buick. Watching him come out it seemed as if there would never be an end to him. First came two long shins. Then two longer thighs. Then a narrow waist and torso and then a long arm which fluttered upward to grasp the running board of the car. By the time he had completely emerged, Rocky was laughing.

"Do that again, please," she said. "I've never seen so much person come out from under one car before."

"Lassie," said Worm, "the Highland Scots are all big people. It's a short man in the Highlands who doesn't top six feet two inches." He said this solemnly, without anger or humor, as if he were acquainting her with a piece of interesting information of which he was proud.

Worm looked at him sourly. "She's fixed oop as much as she's ever likely to be," he replied.

"As much as she's ever likely to be?" repeated Randy puzzled. "Is there something wrong that can't be repaired?"

"Nae," said Worm fishing for a cigarette, for whenever he got out from under a car, he saluted his liberation by lighting one. "There's naething that can't be repaired. But there's some cars, as ye well know, that hae hidden traps and faults in them. The best mechanic in the world canna find them. And I'm thinking that yon Black Tiger is one of them."

"Nae," said Worm. "There's naething wrong there. She's as perfect a piece of automobile engineering as you or I are ever likely tae see. Davie would have approved of her entirely. But think of it this way, mon. There's several thousand moving parts in an automobile like that. They're all moving at high speed—faster than an ordinary car—and under peak pressures. Yon car has never been tried on a track before ye took it oot. It's full of bugs ye can no eliminate on a designer's table or in the factory. They have to be found out on the race track. Some cars they never get the bugs out of. They're man-killers from the first time they're driven to the time they give them up. It's my opinion that the Black Tiger is one of them."

Randy listened to all this very seriously. He was looking straight at Worm and never took his eyes off him while the latter was talking.

When he had finished he said, "This is an old difference between us, Worm. You think that there are certain cars that are man-killers. And I think that there are cars that kill or maim drivers until they've found out how to build them better. That, from my point of view, is one of the objects of racing—to design fast, efficient, safe automobiles. The Black Tiger probably has a few bugs in her. But I think she's the finest designed automobile I've ever seen. I intend to drive her and find out what the bugs are.

"By the way, I wrote the company about that broken steering knuckle. They've replied that they're checking with the shippers. Their only explanation is that the car must have been dropped. The knuckle is made of the finest chrome steel, and they cannot understand how, except through some very heavy blow, it could have sheered off.

"They're going to foot the bill for all the repairs. They are anxious to know whether I'll enter her in the Santa Barbara Road Races in September."

Randy laughed—a laugh of almost boyish glee. "Nobody will ever change you, Worm," he said. "Of course I didn't. I wrote and said that the Black Tiger will be at Santa Barbara and I'll be behind her wheel. Furthermore, I hope you and Woody will agree to form my pit crew."

"Daddy," Rocky said, "if you're going to look over the Tiger, can Woody and I take the MG around the block?" Woody knew that she wasn't really asking her father's permission but was hinting to Worm to release him. Worm took the hint.

"Be back in half an hour," he said. "We've got tae get that clutch in before we close the shop."

When they got into the MG, Woody turned to Rocky and said, "What's with Worm and racing? Why does he seem to be half afraid of it, as if he was always expecting trouble?"

"Yes," Rocky replied. "He and Daddy were great friends. They were the two most promising racing drivers in Europe. Of course this was before I was born. Daddy was about twenty and Worm the same age."

"I don't think I ought to tell you," Rocky said. "It's Worm's secret, and maybe you really ought to ask him. Though I'd advise waiting until he's ready to tell you. I think he will one day. Here, you take over." She pulled the MG to the curb. Woody climbed out, and she slid over into his seat.

As Woody got back into the MG behind the wheel, he saw the Jacksons' car going by. Mrs. Jackson was driving and Mary Jane was sitting beside her. She stared at him in disbelief and then suddenly turned away and looked straight ahead.

For the next two weeks Woody saw a great deal more of Rocky than he did of Mary Jane. He felt vaguely guilty about it. The business of getting the MG ready for the Hansen Dam races put him constantly in Rocky's company. They went to the tech inspection together, and Woody, with Worm's assistance, remedied the various defects in the MG that the inspectors demanded be repaired. They were minor—a new tire, a stop light that didn't work, some adjustment to the brakes so that all four wheels locked evenly, and one or two other odds and ends.

Woody had to admit to himself that he liked Rocky. As a matter of fact, the more he saw of her and the more he was with her, the more he liked her. But he also liked Mary Jane, and he wondered whether there might not be some character defect in himself, hitherto undetected, because of this. Could a guy be keen on two girls at the same time? He hadn't read much on the subject, but what little he had suggested that this was contrary to human nature. Most fellows seemed to have just one girl. Yet there he was with two and loath to give up either of them.

Rocky had all the things that Mary Jane didn't. She loved cars and would talk about them for hours. She drove like a wizard and was quite skillful when it came to making repairs. As a matter of fact, she knew more about sports cars than Woody did, though she was very tactful at concealing this.

Mary Jane, on the other hand, was more feminine. Maybe she didn't know much about cars and was somewhat averse to them. But she was more of a girl and, indeed, prettier than Rocky. Woody sometimes wished that the two could somehow be combined, for the result would have been ideal for him. Woody would hardly think of taking Rocky to a dance, nor would he think of asking Mary Jane to help take the head off an engine. Combined, he would have a girl who could go dancing and work on cars with him as well.

Steve was not a great help in this dilemma. "What you think you're doing?" he asked. "Getting together a harem?"

"Who? Me?" said Steve innocently. "Your old pal? All I have is your welfare at heart. Just don't like to see a promising young mechanic getting dame trouble so early in his career." He skipped quickly out of the garage as Woody threw one of Worm's dirtier oil rags at him.

The matter came to a head one evening shortly before the Hansen Dam race when Woody had a date with Mary Jane.

She was tight-lipped through the dinner and Woody was careful not to talk very much about either the race or cars. When they were sitting over a dessert of sherbet, Mary Jane said suddenly, breaking an awkward silence, "Woody, are you going to race at Hansen Dam?"

"No, she didn't," Woody replied. "I'm racing her car. But she didn't do anything to persuade me. I wish I could get you to understand that I just like racing cars. It means a lot to me. It's the one thing that I really like doing."

"If you cared anything about me at all you wouldn't race," Mary Jane said, looking straight into Woody's eyes.

"Gee," said Woody, "this hasn't got anything to do with whether I care for you or not. You know I care for you. It's just that I like racing, that's all. And I've got a swell chance to race Rocky's car—"

"Don't mention that Rocky to me again," Mary Jane flared. "She's just a scalp-hunter. She's out to collect all the scalps she can. And I can see that she's already added yours to her collection." And with that Mary Jane got up and headed for the door.

Woody had a hard time paying the check in time to catch up with her. He tried to explain more to her about racing, but people kept looking at them, and even when he drove her home, he knew that she was not listening to him.

Her parting words were "You can make your choice between Rocky and me. And don't expect me to stand around weeping while you do."

"There isn't any choice between you and Rocky," he said. "That's just your excuse. The choice is between you and racing. And right now, for your information, Miss Jackson, I'm choosing racing."

With that he slammed the door of the car and drove off. He hadn't gone more than a quarter of a mile before he regretted such an angry parting. He wondered whether he ought not to go back and try to patch things up. But then he recalled how mad Mary Jane had been over the money he spent on his hot rod, Cindy Lou. And at the memory he gritted his teeth and drove on. It was time for a real showdown with Mary Jane, he told himself. She would either have to take him, cars and racing, or find some other guy. He wasn't going to give up his chief interest in life for Mary Jane, and he found it selfish of her to ask him to do so.

Early Saturday he was at Hansen Dam with Rocky and Steve. Rocky had raced her MG before and was well known to many of the other drivers and their crews. They drifted over to her pit and were introduced to Steve and Woody. She seemed to be very popular with the racing crowd and held in considerable respect by them. One driver in particular, a long, dark-haired youth named Pete Worth whom Woody had never seen before, seemed exceptionally friendly with Rocky. Woody decided that he didn't like the guy though he couldn't say why.

"That so?" said Pete looking Woody over. "Haven't seen you on any of the tracks before. You from back east?"

"Hope you know the track," said Pete. "Lot of hero drivers have wound up on the hay bales on this one."

"Me? No. But that number-four turn is a pistol. Well, see you." He turned to Woody. "Good luck," he said.

"He races a lot," said Rocky. "He's a first-class driver. If you can keep him in sight, you're doing good. But he likes to go around before the race and find out what kind of competition he's up against. And if he finds a new driver he tries to throw a scare into him. He's only joking, of course, but some of the boys don't like it."

"Oh, it's not really bad," Rocky replied. "Where is that map of the course? Here it is. Look, there's a long run out, about a quarter of a mile, then a full hairpin bend back again. That's number four. The only trouble about it is that it's narrow and it's flat. No camber on it to help you get around. The thing to do is to change down at the hundred-yard mark to second and then gun her around. If you do it right, you can drift around the bend. But if you take it too wide, you'll hit the hay bales on the far side.

"Remember this. If you do leave the track, don't get back into the race until a flagman gives you a high ball. And if you spin out and your engine quits, hold both your hands up over your head as a signal to the other drivers to miss you—that is if they can.

"Tell you what. I know this track pretty well. I've raced on it twice before. The track will be open for practice in a few minutes. Why don't you take the MG and get in five or six laps to familiarize yourself with the turns? It'll help a lot."

"Fasten your safety belt and take this," said Rocky. She handed him a heavy white crash helmet. "Here," she said, "I'll fasten it for you." Her fingers, when they touched the side of his face to fasten the chin strap, seemed cool and comforting.

Woody gave a little wave of his hand, put the racing goggles from his helmet down over his eyes, and drove the MG from the pit to the starting area of the track. A flagman signaled him to stop, and five cars, all in a huddle, zipped past. Then came two more. The flagman waved his arm and Woody swept out onto the track. He revved the MG up, and she took off so fast that he could feel himself pressed back against the seat. There was an angry roar from behind and a Singer stormed past him. Woody started to move over to the left instinctively. In the same instant a Porsche Speedster swept by him on the left.

"Cripes," said Woody to himself, "I'd almost forgotten. They pass any side they want to."

He felt his knees shaking a little from nervousness, and his hands were a little unsteady on the wheel. Then he thought of Rocky watching him, changed from second to third and third to high and blasted down the track after the two cars.

There was a corner in front of him before he realized it. It seemed to be hurled out of space toward him. He dropped down into third, revving up for a second in neutral. He heard a tire scream as he pulled the steering wheel over to the left. The MG picked up a rear wheel skid, careened over to her right a little, scrabbled around the corner, and was off again. But Woody had hardly time to congratulate himself before there was another bend ahead. Again he changed down, braking hard to do so. He turned the wheel to the right, hit the accelerator, and with a car on either side of him, skated, his rear wheel protesting, round the bend.

"So that's how it's done," he said. "You slam on the brakes, change down, rev her hard, pick up a rear wheel skid, and get around." He began to feel a little more confident.

His confidence was nearly wrecked, however, when he came to bend number four. A series of signs before it marked off the distances from the hairpin; two hundred yards, one hundred yards, and fifty yards. He remembered Rocky's advice and changed down at a hundred. But he was still going too fast when he entered the hairpin. He picked up a four-wheel drift, and the steering wheel spun around crazily between his hands. Woody hit the accelerator hard three or four times and turned the steering wheel in the direction in which he was skidding. A monument of hay bales, stacked around a concrete telephone pole, loomed before him. Then they flew past, the steering wheel steadied, and he was off down the straight again.

He made five laps before he decided that he was at all familiar with the course.

"You did swell," said Steve when he got back to the pits. "But, boy, for a moment I thought you were going to wind up among the hay bales."

"Well, it's hard to believe," she replied. "A lot of drivers I know wouldn't have got out of that four-wheel skid. If Daddy had seen that, he'd have said you didn't have to learn to drive. You were born knowing how."

"The track is now closed," said the announcer over the loud-speaker. "Cars for the first event please come to the starting grid."

The first event was for the big cars—three thousand cc.'s and over. By common consent the three watched it from the start-finish line where they also had a fair view of what was happening at turn number one. Rocky, indeed, went out onto the starting grid to talk to some of the drivers who were friends of her father. Tom Wisdom was there in his Ferrari, and Woody could see him talking seriously to Rocky. He guessed he was asking her about Randy.

"Is this big stuff much tougher to handle than the MG's?" Woody asked when she returned.

"Some people say so. But Daddy says no. He says although they are faster and heavier, they are also more easily controlled than the light cars. Of course, a Ferrari is a lot more fun to drive than an MG. They average about a hundred and twenty around the track, including the hairpins and other bends, while an MG is doing super if it can average seventy. I think it's just a matter of instinct and experience. And I can't say which is the most important. You can't do it all on instinct. And you can't do it all on experience either. Some of the top drivers are those who have been racing the shortest while."

They only watched the first half-dozen laps of the first race because Rocky had to get ready for her turn, which followed immediately. Tom Wisdom won, and he was over in Rocky's pit just as she was ready to leave for the starting area.

"Thanks," said Tom. "Good luck, kid. I came to tell you there's a little oil right as you go into bend three. Not much. Nothing to worry about. But I just didn't want you sharing the same ward with Randy."

"Oh, he's out of the hospital now," said Rocky. "But thanks all the same. I'll take it easy."

"Pile on in if you're coming," he said, leaving Woody to climb on the back. Tom swung a leg over the side and crouched down beside him.

"Saw you during the practice lap," said Tom. "Nice bit of work on that hairpin. Driven much before?" Woody didn't think he heard his reply.

There were eighteen cars in the race, and Rocky had drawn the ninth position in the starting line-up. Ahead of her were five MG's, two Singers, and a Porsche.

Rocky seemed completely calm as she did up her chin strap and pulled on her racing gloves. Woody wondered whether the calm was all pretense, whether she didn't feel waves of anxiety going up and down her spine, and whether her knees weren't trembling a little.

"Good luck, Rocky," he said as they left the starting area. The smile she gave him was not the least bit strained. It was eager, and her eyes danced with excitement. In Woody's opinion, she was looking forward eagerly to the race and had no qualms about it.

"Thanks," Rocky replied. "This is going to be lots of fun." She looked around at the cars ahead, behind, and on either side of her, waved to one or two of the other drivers, and seemed in every way completely relaxed.

Back in the racing pits, Woody said to Steve, "Rocky doesn't seem a bit nervous."

"She and her father have nerves of steel," he said. "Just when other people begin to get jittery, they begin to feel cool. I've been driving fifteen years now. And I can tell you there hasn't been a race yet that I didn't heartily wish myself somewhere else a few minutes before the starter brought down his flag. There they are! They're off!"

A swarm of cars roared by them, and Woody hardly caught a glimpse of the big five on Rocky's MG before it had flashed by.

Woody wished he could get over to the hairpin to see how Rocky handled it. But he was compelled to stay in the racing pits in case the car developed any trouble. He was able to see only snatches of the race as the cars passed by the start-finish line at the end of each lap. The rest, however, he followed through the announcer on the loud-speaker. He confined his comments for the first four laps to the Porsche and another MG, number fourteen, which had started a battle for leadership at once. But by the end of the sixth lap, Rocky had come up to fifth place and was fighting it out with a Singer ahead of her. Woody saw the two speed by, and they were almost abreast at the bend. But the Singer had the inside track and was the first around the bend.

The announcer now was beginning to take some notice of Rocky. "Keep your eyes on Rocky Randolph in car number five," he said. "Miss Randolph is the daughter of Captain Jim Randolph, one of the great sports car racers of the day. She is driving an MG TF and doing a magnificent job of it. Those who say that driving ability isn't inherited may think differently after watching her. She and a Singer, number twenty-two, are going into the hairpin together. The Singer has the inside track. Boy! Look at that. The Singer, driven by Miss Simmons of San Diego, took the hairpin a little wide, skidded to the far side, and Randy slipped through the gap. She's now ahead—fourth in the race and overhauling the Porsche in front of her."

"Here they come," said Steve excitedly. "There's the first MG, the Porsche—and there's Rocky—third."

The announcer picked up the rest of the lap for them. Rocky was having a hard time getting by the Porsche. She could corner better, but the Porsche had more acceleration on the straightaway. She remained in third place for the next two laps, and then the announcer said that she had dropped back to fourth.

"Must be having some trouble," said Tom. They waited anxiously. The first MG passed, then the Porsche, a Singer, then two more MG's, and finally Rocky came almost crawling down the track.

She steered into the racing pits, and Woody saw at a glance that her right-hand rear tire was almost flat.

Nobody said a word. Steve had the jack out and the rear of the MG off the ground in almost the time it takes to describe it. In the meantime Woody had taken off the flanged racing hub that held the wheel in place. It was the work of less than a minute to remove the wheel and put on the spare, and Rocky was back in the race in three minutes. But in that three minutes, all the other cars had gained a lap on her. Try as she would there wasn't time to make it up and get back into the lead again. She did make up half a lap, but the checkered finish flag had fallen before she could improve her position.

"Tough luck," said Woody when she drove back into the pit. "You were doing swell."

Rocky's eyes were still bright with excitement. "It was wonderful," she said. "I haven't had so much fun since the last time I raced. You boys did a terrific job changing that wheel. Only lost a lap. Could easily have lost two if you'd bungled it." Her smile was full of appreciation.

There was time, in the interval provided by the third race, to check the MG over. Woody took it down to the gas truck to be filled up and to have the oil checked. Rocky reported that the engine had behaved beautifully, so he did nothing there but see that all the spark-plug leads were firm and examine the valve cover for oil leaks. There were none. When he got back to the pits, he found it hard to appear cool. Steve and Rocky were watching the race, and he was glad of that. Rocky had put on such a wonderful performance that for the first time he became aware that he had better do at least as well if he was not to be disgraced in her eyes.

He sat behind the wheel and looked into the rear-vision mirrors. They seemed to be adjusted right. He got out and looked at his tires. Nothing wrong with them. He opened the hood again, took the cap off the distributor, and looked at the points. They were in excellent shape.

"What the heck am I doing?" he said to himself, replacing the cap and shutting the hood firmly.

"Listen, Woody," he told himself, "all you have to do is keep cool and drive as well as you can. No sense taking unnecessary risks. You've got a long time to live. Besides, every other guy in the race is probably just as scared as you are right now."

This thought, comforting for a second, was immediately dispersed by a voice behind him.

"Feeling O.K.?" somebody said, and he spun around startled by the unexpected words. It was Pete Worth, to whom he had been introduced earlier in the day.

"Oh, nothing," said Pete. "I saw that Rocky had some trouble and thought it might keep you out of it." He was quite cool, almost insolently so.

"Ah," said Pete. "Well, lucky it wasn't a front wheel. You can lose control real fast with a front-wheel blowout. See you down there. I'm in ninety-nine—the green TF." He pointed to his car, which was three pit places away. Then he sauntered off. Woody fancied that he was smiling slightly.

"Just trying to throw a scare into me," he said to himself. "Front-wheel blowout! Bet they don't get one of them in a million races." Nonetheless, he went around and inspected the tread on his front tires. It looked good. The left-hand one was a little more worn than the right. But not very much.

"Both tiptop tires," he said to himself. But he wished the left-hand tire didn't show as much wear as it did. Probably the front end was a little out of line. That would account for it. He tried to think of something else.

"Sure," said Woody, "raring to go." But actually he felt just like Tom Wisdom did before a race. He wished he was somewhere else.

Woody didn't feel any better when he was down on the starting grid with a school of cars snorting roaring around him. In fact he felt a lot worse, though he would scarcely have believed it was possible to feel worse. Only Steve seemed to notice, however, for both Rocky and Tom who came down to the area with him, were chatting away quite gaily. Woody thought their attitude positively brutal.

"Don't you worry, pal," Steve said. "You'll do all right. Take my word for it. Have you done up your safety belt?" Woody discovered that he hadn't. When he got it buckled, the firm clasp around his waist made him feel better. But it didn't stop the trembling in his knees over which he seemed to have no control at all. He hoped Rocky couldn't see the trembling, but she was busy with Tom and not paying him much attention anyway.

Woody looked around and licked his lips, which were uncomfortably dry. There wasn't much moisture in his mouth, either. He had drawn a place well back in the pack. In fact, out of a field of twenty-one, there were only four cars farther back than his. He got some comfort out of this. There would be some excuse, perhaps, if he didn't show up too well. After all, a guy driving his first real race couldn't be expected to pass seventeen other drivers. He figured that if he passed one or two of them, he'd be doing well.

"Oh, he's way up in front. About third or fourth," Steve replied. Well, that was something. He wouldn't have to worry about Pete Worth passing him and maybe rubbing it in afterward.

"Listen, pal," said Steve. "All you have to do is watch the guys ahead. Watch how they corner. When you see them jam on the brakes, slow down yourself. When they give her the gun, do the same thing. And if you see a chance to pass, why take it. And remember, pal, we're all pulling for you."

Woody was conscious that Rocky was looking at him. He was also conscious that the corner of his lip was trembling. He could feel the twitch in it, but he hoped it was not visible. To make sure, he put his hand casually up to his mouth.

"Good luck, Woody," Rocky said. "Got to leave you now. Put your foot in it whenever you can. She goes like a bomb."

Half an hour, Woody thought. This is one half hour I could do without. The three left, and he was now alone with all the other cars around him. An almost lazy silence, disturbed only by the deep beating of the cars around, settled over the starting area. Woody pushed in his clutch and put the gearshift in low. His foot kept trembling on the accelerator so that the note of his engine rose and sank. The driver in the car on his right hand side looked over at him briefly and winked. He knows how I feel anyway, Woody said to himself. All eyes were now on the plump rubber-ball figure of the starter. As usual, he had his back to the drivers. He bent down, seeming to pick up something from the track. Then, almost before Woody realized it, he had leaped into the air and brought down the starting flag.

Woody let out the clutch as if it were burning his foot and jammed down on the accelerator. There was a haze of blue smoke before his windshield, and the whole pack of cars, with him in the middle, shot forward. Two passed by him and cut in front into a space barely big enough to hold them.

"Cripes," said Woody, "that makes me third from last." He changed into second, into third, and into high, and before he knew it, there was a knot of cars braking ahead of him to get around the first bend. How he made it himself he could not recall. He got around in a screech of tires with glimpses out of the tail of his eye of other cars, inches from him, swaying and screeching around with their drivers crouched over their steering wheels.

When he was around the turn, he glanced, by instinct, into his rear-vision mirror. It showed the clear view of the track behind him. There was not a car in sight. He'd dropped to last place in the first three hundred yards.

The thought angered him. It angered him as much as the fact that his legs were still trembling, his mouth as dry as blotting paper, and his hands unsteady on the wheel.

He jammed his foot down on the accelerator and watched the needle of the speedometer creep up to sixty-five, then to seventy, hover there a fraction of a second, and then move on past. He grinned as he saw he was steadily overhauling two cars ahead. The stop light on one of them flashed red. Ahead were a series of S-bends. Woody remembered them from his trial runs around the track. He glanced at his speedometer. Seventy-two.

"O.K., brother," he said, "you're going too fast. But you just might make it." He entered the first S-bend abreast of the Singer that had been ahead of him. He left him behind as if the Singer were standing still. But when he brought the steering wheel over to the right for the next turn, the MG seemed to lie down on two wheels and started skittering toward a pile of hay bales. There wasn't time to change to a lower gear. Woody took his foot completely off the accelerator, and it seemed for a second as if the car were going to turn over. He was thrown hard against the side and stabbed his foot on the accelerator again. For a second the car teetered. Then the MG recovered and flashed off so close to the bales that he felt a slight thud as his nearside fender tipped the edge of one of them.

Ahead now lay two more cars. And another bend. This time Woody changed down. He revved the engine to a roar in neutral and let the clutch out hard as he slipped the gear lever over into third. The MG jerked forward, and Woody headed for a gap between the two cars in front of him. If the gap remained he could get through. But if it closed he would be flung against one car or the other. He jammed the accelerator down and crept into the gap. His front wheels were level with the driver's seat of the first car and six feet from the rear wheels of the second car.

"Come on, baby," he said and urged the MG to more speed. Slowly he crept abreast of the first MG and was now fully in the gap. The car beside him started to slip behind. Woody felt a tinge of pleasure and triumph. He was now ahead of the first MG but not enough to swing over and pass the second. Suddenly he saw the brake light on the car ahead flash red for a second. He was braking for a bend. Woody made a split-second decision. If he braked now, he'd lose the ground he had made. If he speeded up, it would be to go into a corner again faster than he should. He hit the accelerator.

To the spectators it looked as if he were a bolt shot from a crossbow. His car leaped forward swiftly to pass the one ahead right on the curve. There was a cry of "Ooh," which Woody heard clearly above the roar of the engines.

He had to take a chance now. He was going much too fast. He had to step on the brakes and risk being hit by the car behind. It was either that or spin out on the corner. He hit the brakes hard—so hard he could hear his tires scream and feel the back of his car slew around. Then he stepped on the accelerator again and pulled the steering wheel over to the right. For a second it looked as if he was going to spin around completely on the track. Woody did indeed spin around at a right angle. But this served to help him around the corner and when he hit the gas again, he was safely on the straightaway and had passed three of the cars that had passed him in the early seconds of the race.

He hardly saw Rocky, Tom, and Steve as he flashed by the start-finish line. If he stopped for a second to think of what he was doing and the risks he was taking, the trembling and anxiety would return. Instead, he concentrated on urging the MG to even greater efforts.

On the next three laps he passed three more cars. A fourth dropped out for a pit stop, and that put Woody seventh from the end. Since he had started out fourth from last he was doing well. He began to feel much more confident of the MG's ability to stay on the track when other cars would have skidded off into the hay bales, and began also to enjoy himself.

The crisis of the race came at the beginning of the hairpin in the sixth lap. In the five times he had passed it previously he had noticed that there was a tendency for the cars to bunch up there. Everyone slowed down and concentrated more upon getting around the bend than in passing each other on it. There was a straightaway of about a quarter of a mile leading to the hairpin, and Woody tearing down this caught up with a huddle of five cars that had changed down to get around the hairpin. They were all hugging the inside to give themselves a chance to skid wide over to the far side of the track when they got around the hairpin.

Woody decided to reverse this process. He would start into the hairpin from the uncrowded far side of the track and try to cut the MG hard over to the inside when he was around. There would be great risk of a collision in doing this. But there was also the chance of passing two or three cars on the one bend if the maneuver came off.

He approached the hairpin then on the outside and picked a place on the inside as his target, toward which a red Porsche was speeding. If things went well the Porsche would be out of the way when he wanted to get in there. He changed down from fourth to third and third to second, and, with his engine roaring, cut hard over.

Then everything happened at once. There was a scream from behind, and a Singer squeaked by right under his front wheels. It went by as a black blur, and in so doing, trapped the driver of the Porsche so he had to step on his brakes to avoid a collision. The gap that Woody had expected to appear just wasn't there. The Porsche still half filled it. Woody glanced in his rear-vision mirror. There were two cars on his tail, the Porsche dead ahead, the Singer, and another car blocking him on the left.

His only chance was to cut off the track onto the dirt shoulder and make room for himself there. He headed the MG for the shoulder, picked up a skid, slewed sideways, straightened, caught a glimpse of a telephone pole, pulled his steering wheel hard over to the left, hit the gas, and then, to his astonishment, found himself around the hairpin with only the Porsche ahead.

Woody swallowed hard. He must have passed two or three cars on the hairpin. But he had nearly broken his neck doing it. The old nervousness, now forgotten, returned in a flood. His legs began to tremble. The Porsche fled before him down the straightaway. Woody changed up instinctively. But when he came to the next bend, he slowed down well in advance of it, and took the corner cautiously. He was scared, badly scared.

He retained his place but didn't pass anybody on the next three laps. There were only two more to go. But he could not bring himself to take any more risks. The memory of the skid, of being locked in a whirl of cars doing sixty miles an hour around a hairpin, and of the telephone pole hurtling toward him was too fresh in his mind. He made an attempt at passing the Porsche on the S-bends. But whereas previously he would have taken a risk and gone hurtling by, trusting that the MG would stay under control, he now braked and changed down, and the Porsche kept ahead of him without much trouble.

"You've got to snap out of this," he told himself. "You've got to take a couple more chances. Otherwise you'll lose your nerve."

He steeled himself for another try at the hairpin. He forced himself to delay changing down and shot the corner from a wide angle. But just as he thought he was going to get through and felt a tingle of self-confidence returning, a blue MG ahead spun out. One second it was holding the track doggedly before him. The next it gave a sort of lurch or jump and turned broadside on to him. Woody flung his steering wheel over with a cry almost of anguish. His bumper just missed the front wheel of the car, which had turned completely around on the track. In pulling out, he nearly sideswiped another car on his right, and though he stepped on the gas and pulled ahead out of the mess, he was in a panic when he got clear of it.

"I've got to get hold of myself," he kept repeating. "I've got to get over this." But when the race concluded, he had passed no more cars and taken no more chances.

When he pulled up to the pit, Rocky was almost dancing with excitement. "You drove like a wizard," he said. "I went up to the hairpin to watch you. It was terrific. You knocked off three cars on that corner and must have finished about eighth. If you'd had any kind of a position at the start, you'd have won."

Tom and Steve were full of congratulations, too. But their words were empty for Woody. If they knew how he felt, he told himself, they wouldn't be saying what they were. They wouldn't want to have anything to do with him.

For Woody knew that he could have passed at least one or two more cars except for one thing: he was afraid. It wasn't just nerves or anxiety. It was plain cold fear. He'd driven his first race and come out of it a coward.

Woody made up his mind that the only way he could get over the fear and dread that he now had of racing was to race some more. In fact, he determined to do as much road racing as he could. In this decision he had a willing helper in Rocky, and in the two months after the Hansen Dam race he drove in five events. He was no longer considered a junior driver and had got over some of the thrill of seeing his name in the list of contestants at road-race events. He had even drawn mention in one of the Los Angeles sports columns as an up-and-coming driver with a lot of dash and courage.

When Woody read that paragraph, eagerly pointed out to him by Steve, he wondered how much the man who wrote it knew of his real reason for racing. Far from having a lot of dash and courage, he was always filled with caution and plain fear on the track. He only placed at all in the events in which he entered because he had a natural driving gift—an instinctive combination of judgment and timing that took him through tight spots. But he knew he could do better, a great deal better, if he could get rid of the black fear that settled on him whenever he came to a bend with half a dozen other cars roaring around him.

He wished there was someone with whom he could talk over this problem. He wished he could discuss the way his palms sweated, his limbs trembled, and his mouth went dry even as he sat down behind the driving wheel at the start of a race. He wished he could explain how those symptoms never left him all through the event; how he was filled with dread from start to finish and heartily wished he had never taken up racing.

Once he thought of mentioning it to Steve and went so far as to say he always got the shakes just before the start of a race.

"Shucks, pal, everybody has the same thing," Steve said. "But you get over it, don't you?"

Woody didn't have the courage to say no, he didn't get over it. Other drivers did and took chances and won races. But he, although he seemed to be taking chances, was actually avoiding them and getting through on sheer driving talent. He didn't drive a race with any courage at all. He drove it with nothing else but fear in his mind. If he could find some courage, he might win a couple of times. But fear held him back constantly—fear of being wrapped around a telephone pole or being mangled under the wheels of cars behind or turning over and being pounded to death in his own car.

About the nearest he got to talking to anybody about his problem was one evening when Randy and Rocky had come up to Hermosa Beach and asked him out to dinner. When dinner was over, Randy, who by now was getting along without crutches though he had a slight limp, started talking about racing. He discussed the subject as if it were a philosophy, a mode of living calling out the very best in the character of those who followed it.

Woody had never known him to be so serious before. He wasn't sure whether the conversation was being held for his own benefit or for Rocky's.

"Road racing condenses into a few minutes or hours all the problems, the fears, and the triumphs of life," Randy said, smoothing his fair hair with a thin sensitive hand. "It demands the one thing that no man can get through life without successfully. Self-reliance. There are millions of people quite talented and able who go through life being unsure of themselves. They haven't enough self-confidence to take a risk—to change their jobs, their localities, and so on. They live rather miserably without ever having fulfilled themselves.

"But in racing, such people are soon ruled out. The driver who has no basic confidence in himself will keep coming in last. Either that or he will develop self-confidence. If he remains unsure of himself, he will quit racing. Just as in life, if he remains unsure of himself, he will quit trying and seek some job that offers security rather than opportunity."

"You don't think it is possible to get by on just driving skill alone?" asked Woody. "I mean, suppose there was a man who was just naturally a good driver. But he really didn't trust himself. Wouldn't he still show up pretty well on the track?"

"He would for a while," said Randy, "but after, say, half a dozen races, he'd be fighting himself. He might think he was racing the car ahead. But he'd really be racing the guy within him. One part would be telling him to go ahead and take a few chances and rely on his skill in getting through. The other part would be telling him to save his skin and not take any risks.

"That's where the real testing comes in, of course. But I've seen some good men crack up, fighting themselves like that. They'd have been a lot better off if they never went in for racing in the first place. Unless they win a victory over themselves and achieve self-confidence, they remain miserable for the rest of their lives. They drop out of racing. But they can never be happy."

"What about fear?" said Woody. "I mean you've been in a couple of accidents. Didn't that make you real scared the next time you drove?"

"It certainly did and does," replied Randy. "But self-confidence doesn't mean that a man is without fear. You've got to be afraid, to get any self-confidence that comes from overcoming fear. But some people never make it. They spend the rest of their lives doubting their own abilities.

"The time I cracked up and had my foot amputated, I broke out in a cold sweat whenever I thought of racing again. All my friends advised me to give up the game. On the surface, it would have been the sensible thing to do. But they did not realize that if I quit, it would have been a victory for fear, and I would have to live with it for the rest of my life."

Up to this point Woody had been on the verge of confessing his own fears to Randy. But now he found he could not do so. This seemed to be a battle he had to fight alone. It was one with which none of his friends could help him. He realized dimly that men always fight their battles alone—not just in racing cars but in their daily living. They alone can make the critical decisions, and nobody can help with them.

"How do you feel about the Black Tiger now?" Woody asked instead of mentioning his own fears.

"To be honest with you, I'm scared stiff," said Randy with a laugh. "If I wasn't scared, I might put off racing her for a little while. But if I postponed it now, though other people might say I had good reasons, I'd know that the real reason was fear. And then I might never race again." Woody did say that he was always scared himself when he got behind the steering wheel of the MG. But he didn't say that he remained scared all through the race and deliberately neglected chances to pass other cars because he was afraid to take them. He felt that both Randy and Rocky would be contemptuous of him if he did. And he wanted them both to have a good opinion of him.

A month remained before the Santa Barbara race. It was a pretty miserable month for Woody. He got nervous and a little irritable, which was unusual for him. Both his father and mother noticed the change in him, and one evening his father put down his paper, took off his glasses with a swift decision, and nodded to Woody's mother, who left the room. When she had gone, Mr. Hartford said, "Woody, your mother and I are both worried about you. You're not eating much, and you seem nervous all the time. Is there anything the matter?"

"No," said Woody shortly. Mr. Hartford groaned silently. He could recall a similar occasion in his own youth when his father had tried to talk to him man to man, and he had withheld his confidence. He was hurt that his son should do the same to him now.

"Son," said Mr. Hartford, "I never pry into your affairs. I look upon you as a sensible young man of whom I am proud. But I've lived a lot longer than you. That's a mathematical fact. I don't say I'm smarter than you. But I've just had more experience. Now if you've got some sort of a problem that's bothering you that I, with my experience, can help with, I wish you'd let me know about it."

"Is it Mary Jane? I notice you haven't been seeing much of her lately." Woody hesitated. He missed Mary Jane a great deal. At one time he might have been able to talk his problem over with her. But she was so dead set against racing that all she would tell him would be to give it up. She wouldn't understand that there was more than racing involved in the problem.

"No, Dad," Woody said, "It isn't Mary Jane. It's really nothing at all. I just don't feel well. I think I'll go for a walk." He left the room rather hurriedly, for he wanted to avoid further questioning. When he had gone, Mrs. Hartford came in.

"No," replied her husband. "There's something the matter, but only time will bring it out. The boy has some problem, and feels he ought to keep it to himself."

"But we're his parents," said Mrs. Hartford. "Surely he should be able to tell us."

Mr. Hartford smiled. "Mother," he said, "when a boy decides not to discuss his troubles with his parents, it doesn't mean that he doesn't love them any more. It means that he's becoming a man. I'm pretty proud of Woody. I'd have been just a little disappointed if he'd broken down and told me what was the matter with him."

For two weeks before the Santa Barbara race, Woody spent most of his time working on the Black Tiger. Randy made the deal with Worm, agreeing to pay Woody's wages. Randy and Rocky rented an apartment in Hermosa Beach so they could be near the car, and the Black Tiger was given a thorough overhaul from rear axle to fan belt. In those two weeks Woody became more and more fond of Randy. The man had a buoyancy of spirit and a quick humor that was completely captivating. It was hard to believe that he had any fears at all about the forthcoming race. He spoke of it with enthusiasm and excitement, as if it were something he was looking forward to eagerly.

Woody often wanted to ask him whether he still felt nervous about it, but could not bring himself to do so.

The Thursday before the race, which was to be held over the weekend, they took the Black Tiger out to the salt flats, and Randy let Woody drive her. Woody had once wanted nothing more in life than to be seated behind her wheel. But now that the opportunity was offered him, he sought to get out of it.

"Nonsense," said Randy. "Hop in. She's getting maximum torque at six thousand. Rev her up to that before you change. Then change fast and with full throttle. You'll get a real thrill out of it."

When he got going, Woody did get a thrill out of it. For a while he experienced the old exhilaration at his effortless arrowing forward in the Black Tiger, with the landscape around reduced to a blur. The car handled much more delicately than the MG. It was, he told himself, a real racing machine. He glanced at the speedometer and saw he was hitting a hundred and sixty in high. But when he got back and climbed out he was trembling slightly and his mouth was dry.

"One day," Randy said, "you might be able to race her yourself." Woody hoped heartily that that day would never come.

There were two other events before the Black Tiger was due to race at Santa Barbara. In the first, for cars under fifteen hundred cc.'s, Rocky raced the MG, and drove better than Woody had ever seen her drive before. She came up from seventh at the starting line to second when the race was over, and if the race had gone another lap she would have been first.

"This is our day, Randy," she told her father when she got back to the pit. "You're bound to win in the Black Tiger now. I just feel it."

The second race was for old-style racing cars and more of a novelty than a sporting event. Woody saw little of it, being busy with last-minute details on the Black Tiger. The car was in tiptop shape. It was still the magnet of attention among the other drivers and mechanics in the pit area. They came over in twos and threes to look over the engine and comment on the streamlining. Tom Wisdom and Kurt Kreuger, old rivals of Randy's who were to race against him again, were there. They were obviously delighted to know that Randy's leg was in good enough shape for him to race again.

Woody overheard Tom say to Kreuger, "If it was a matter of guts alone, Randy would be sure to win. Boy, he's got more guts than all of us put together."

"You can say that again," said Kurt. He looked back at the Black Tiger and shook his big head solemnly. "Hate to say it," he said, "but that car just bothers me. Too new. Too many unknown bugs in it."

Randy made different pit-crew arrangements for the race than those at Torrey Pines. "Rocky and Worm stay here at the racing pit in case I develop some trouble," he said. "Woody, I'd like you to go out to bend number five and pick a spot by the fence where I can see you as I come out of the bend. Take along that blackboard and a piece of chalk. When I come out of the bend, hold the blackboard well up so I can see it, and chalk on it the number of the lap and my position. If I'm more than sixth or seventh don't bother giving me the position. But if I'm among the first five or so, let me know. Understand?"

"Yes," said Woody. "I'll put the lap number at the top of the board, and your position down below it."

"Swell," said Randy. "The race is for thirty minutes. Toward the end, you can forget about the lap number and just let me know the number of minutes left. O.K.?" Woody nodded and went off to pick a good spot near bend number five.

The Santa Barbara track is laid out roughly in the shape of a horseshoe. The cars travel around the inside of the shoe and then around the outside to complete one lap. But it is a horseshoe that has been badly bent, so that instead of just two hairpins at the feet and a long slow curve at the top, there are a number of near right-angle bends as well.

Woody found a good place behind the snow fence and waited, nerves tingling, for the race to start. Over the loud-speaker he could hear the commentator briefing the crowd on what was going to take place.

"This race," he said, "will commence with a Le Mans start. The cars are parked on one side of the track and their drivers opposite them on the other. When the starter brings down his flag, the drivers will sprint to their cars, jump in, fasten their safety belts, switch on their engines, and get going. The start, then, is a critical moment. A driver who can get under way quickly can get ahead of three or four cars he might not have a chance of passing on the track.

"Well, there they are, all sitting down waiting for the starting flag. There are three veteran Le Mans drivers in this event—Kurt Kreuger in Jag number eight, Tom Wisdom in a red Ferrari, number ten, and Jimmy Randolph in his new Italian job, the Black Tiger, number two. Randy has raced this car only once before and was doing well when he broke a steering knuckle and turned over. He's a great guy to be racing today. But he has every confidence in his car. Here it is. They're off—"

The rest of what the announcer said was drowned in a roar of engines. Woody strained over the snow fence, his eyes on bend number five about a hundred yards down the track. It was a particularly savage bend with buildings on either side and a house dead in front when the driver was halfway around. The house was protected with hay bales. Any car that didn't get around would run straight into them. A further hazard consisted of a thick telephone pole at the end of the bend, where most cars would be swinging wide after making the turn. There were hay bales around that also.

Suddenly there was a roar, and the first car appeared around number five. It was a red Ferrari, number twelve. Then came two more and then a Jag. Then three in a huddle, the one on the outside just missing the telephone pole. Woody began to wonder where Randy was. Suddenly the Black Tiger flashed by in eighth place. Randy, with his newly mended leg, had not been able to sprint over to his car as fast as the other drivers. It was typical of the man that he had made no mention of this additional handicap before the start.

The announcer picked up the rest of the first lap for Woody. Wisdom and Kreuger, old rivals, were battling for third place. Ahead of them was Ben Wedger in a Maserati. There was no mention yet of the Black Tiger. Woody suspected that Randy was still in eighth place. He waited, his eyes riveted on turn number five. Suddenly two cars flashed around it wheel to wheel. The outside car swerved off the shoulder of the track and looked as if it were going to hit the telephone pole. Woody could see the driver fighting to bring it back again. He succeeded but dropped to second place. Then came two more, one on the tail of the other. The first was Kreuger's Jag, number eight. Then Tom Wisdom in his red Ferrari. Then a Maserati, number eleven, and then the Black Tiger. She came around the corner like her namesake, clinging to the inside of the track and passed the Maserati, going full bore as they came abreast of Woody.

"He's fifth now," Woody yelled excitedly. He chalked a big three for the lap number on the top of the board and a big five for Randy's place in the last lap below it.

"They're going into the north hairpin now," said the announcer. "Dave Kingston is still ahead in number twelve, Kreuger and Wisdom are fighting it out wheel to wheel. They've come up to second and third respectively. Wait a minute. What's this. The Black Tiger, driven by Jimmy Randolph, just shot between Wisdom and Kreuger to take over third place. That makes it Kingston, Kreuger, and Randolph in the Black Tiger third. But it's still anybody's race with twenty minutes to go."

Woody forgot about the sign board in his excitement. He leaned as far as he could over the snow fence to see the Black Tiger come around turn number five. There was a tense silence in the crowd, above which he could hear the roar of the engines. He heard the squeal of wheels and the coughing spit of Kingston's Ferrari as he changed down for the bend. Then Kingston was around and after him. Turning the corner in the same instant was Kreuger's Jag and the Black Tiger, wheel to wheel. As they flashed by Woody caught a glimpse of Randy, sitting quite relaxed behind the wheel. There was a slight smile on his face, and then he was gone, headed for the right-angle bend half a mile down the track.

"It's Dave Kingston against Jimmy Randolph in the Black Tiger now," the loud-speaker blared. "Randolph cut in from the far side of the track on bend six to take over the second place from Kreuger. He's battling Kingston now for the lead position. As they pass the start-finish line on the sixth lap it's Kingston, Randolph, Kreuger, and Wisdom.

"Randolph had an overlap on Kingston's Ferrari twice. This is a great race—perhaps the greatest we shall see this year. Here they are going into the hairpin. Kingston is skillfully blocking all Randolph's attempts to pass. He's holding that inside position and has just a little more speed than the Black Tiger on the straightaway. Now they're entering bend number five. It looks as though Randolph is going to take it wide, relying on the cornering ability of the Tiger to take him around—"

Woody didn't have to listen to the rest. He saw it. Kingston's Ferrari hurtled around the bend on the inside with the Black Tiger on its tail. The big Ferrari skidded for a fraction of a second, picked up traction, and hurtled down the straightaway.

But something went wrong with the Black Tiger. The car took the corner wide, and Woody could see Randy fighting to get control. It looked as though he was going to hit the telephone pole, but he managed to miss it by inches. The car came roaring and fishtailing toward the crowd. People scattered like dust before a heavy gust of wind. Woody caught a glimpse of the Tiger hitting the shoulder of the road not a hundred yards from him. Then it leaped into the air, turned slowly on its side, and hit the ground upside down. It slithered bumping and screaming, sparks flying from it, and the wheels spinning, for fifty yards before it came to a standstill.

Woody was over the snow fence before anybody could stop him. Flagmen appeared is if by magic, waving the red accident flags. Woody was conscious that several cars flashed by, slowing down near him, but he had no eyes for them. He ran to the Black Tiger, which lay beside the track, its wheels still spinning in the air.

"Get back," somebody yelled at him and pulled him by the shoulder. Woody yanked himself savagely free and grabbed the side of the Black Tiger, attempting to right it. Several other men came to help. Together they got the Tiger back on its wheels. Randy was in the driver's seat, but his shape was all wrong. One hand was nothing but a red hunk of meat. It lay on his safety belt, and it was obvious that he had been fumbling with it. Blood dripped quietly from it onto his pants. He was slumped sideways beside the steering wheel but in such a way as to suggest that his back was broken. His head lay on the seat, and his face turned up toward them.

He looked at Woody and attempted a smile, but coughed instead. A little pink foam came to his lips.

The ambulance was there in a second, and everybody hustled away to make room for the ambulance attendant. Woody stayed as near as he was allowed and saw a doctor bend over Randy. When the doctor stood up, he didn't say anything. He just shook his head and got back into the ambulance.

In the weeks that followed Randy's death, nobody made any mention of road racing or the Black Tiger around Worm's garage. There was a tacit understanding that both topics should be ignored. Woody worked harder than ever at his job and tried to put both subjects out of his mind. He saw Rocky only at the funeral, and then she went back to San Diego to live with an aunt. Woody did not know what happened to the Black Tiger. And he hoped he would never hear of it or see it again.

Worm made only one comment on the fatal accident that killed Randy. "Yon Black Tiger is a killer car," he said to Woody. "I told Randy so and tried to warn him against racing it. But he was no a man that ye could warn."

It was not, however, as easy to get away from road racing as Woody hoped. When he went into a drugstore for a hamburger, he found himself eying the road-racing magazines. When he bought a newspaper, the sports pages with their columns on road racing had an irresistible fascination for him. He did not want to look at them. Yet he found that he could not refrain from doing so. Names seemed to leap out of the pages at him—Tom Wisdom, Kurt Kreuger, Dave Kingston. It was strange how out of several thousand printed words on a page, one word would stand out as if it were printed in a different color.

A week after Randy's death, Woody called up Mary Jane and asked her for a date. She sounded neither cold nor very friendly on the phone, and said she was doing nothing that night. Woody asked her out to dinner. When he called for her, he began to realize how much he had missed her. It seemed as if he had been only a portion of himself and now he was made whole again. They spent a pleasant evening, not saying anything about what was past or about any plans for the future. It seemed as if the two of them just wanted to enjoy the present for the moment.

Mary Jane seemed much more grown up to Woody that evening. She talked neither of Somerset Maugham nor of boys she'd been out with while they were quarreling. Woody felt peaceful while he was with her for the first time in many weeks. When he went home, he slept well, and the following day was whistling at his work and much more his old self.

Worm noticed the change and was pleased by it. He was not a man to pry into others' affairs, but he had been worried about Woody, toward whom he adopted an attitude part father and part elder brother.

For the next month things went smoothly in this fashion, and Woody almost managed to forget about road racing and the unconquered fears with which the whole subject filled him.

"Just fine now that—now that everything's settled. I called you up because I just had some wonderful news. Guess what?"

"The Italian factory that made the Black Tiger had a representative over here to look at Daddy's car. You know there are only three of them in the world. They were worried about the two accidents"—she hurried over the words—"because they gave the car a bad name. You know people have been saying that the car's a killer, and nobody can be found to drive it. Anyway, they've offered to pay the expenses of repairing the Black Tiger, and they'll provide all the new parts needed and everything if someone will race it again over here."

"Daddy really believed in that car," Rocky continued. "He said it was the finest he'd ever seen in all the time he'd been driving. I thought that since you'd worked with him on it that you'd like to know the news right away."

"Gee," said Woody. "I'm sure glad to hear it. Let me know if they find a driver, huh? Maybe Tom Wisdom. He was a friend of your father's."

"No," said Rocky. "I asked Tom. But he has the same opinion of the Black Tiger as the others. He says it's a killer—too unorthodox a design to be raced safely. Kurt Kreuger says the same. He won't touch it. But I'll find somebody. Of course, there are lots of people who would do it, but they haven't got the kind of driving flair that the car needs. Anyway, I'll let you know if anything happens."

"Rocky," replied Woody. "They're fixing up the Black Tiger, and they're going to race her again."

Worm gave him a queer look. "Come into the office," he said. "I've something I want to tell ye. And I might as well tell ye noo."

When they were inside Worm's tiny office and Worm had lit a cigarette, he took a long hard drag at it, examined the glowing end, and addressed himself to the smoldering cigarette rather than to Woody.

"Ye may have been wondering," he said, "for ye are a noticing body, how it was I came to know Randy so well mony years ago. And ye may have heard some remarks pass between us that made nae sense tae ye at the time. Ye'll recall, nae doot, that the first time he came tae the garage here to ask me tae work on his pit crew, he said that that was something I had tae face and I'd do better tae face it wi' me friends."

"Weel," said Worm, "the fact o' the matter is that many years ago, before ye were born likely, Randy and I were both racing drivers over there in Europe. We raced against each other in the Tourists' Trophy in Ireland and in the Le Mans in France and sometimes in road races that took us frae the Channel ports tae the toe of Italy and back. Clean across the Alps, mind ye, on narrow roads, twisting and curving, through the passes, wi' snow all aroond, and sometimes ye couldna' see tae the end o' yere headlight beam.

"Ah weel, that was when I was young and foolish. Well, there came a time when I was approached by a Swiss company tae race a new car for them in the Le Mans. 'Twas a car ye probably never heard of, for they don't make it any more. 'Twas called an Albinet."

"Well, 'tis as I thought. Few these days have ever heard of the Albinet, though at the time 'twas the wonder car of the year. Like that Black Tiger noo.

"No tae make too long a tale of it, I agreed tae drive the car, and Randy was in the race too, driving a Bugatti if I remember right.

"Now I don't know if you know anything about the Le Mans. 'Tis held in the city of Le Mans in France, and the roads are blocked off tae form the track. The race is laid down through the streets of the city, and there's every kind of a turn and twist and hill and blind corner and every kind of surface ye can think of to be negotiated. 'Tis a twenty-four-hour race. There's cobbles in some parts and asphalt in others and concrete and all the rest. And sometimes it's raining and sometimes it's dry, so ye've never seen a race like the Le Mans over here, and I hope ye never will.

"I mind I was third on the eightieth lap. There was a Frenchman ahead of me in a Hispano-Suiza and a German in the lead with a Mercedes-Benz. Randy was on my tail, and we were going hell for leather down a cobbled hill with a wall on one side all covered wi' sandbags and houses on the other. At the bottom of the hill there was a sharp right turn and then a sharp turn to the left and up another hill.

"The trick was to change doon and brake hard, drift aroond the first corner, regain traction on the second, and on your way.

"The crowd was as thick as flies along the sandbags lining the wall as I came roaring down the hill. I hit my brakes to change doon, and my foot went tae the floor. The brakes had failed. I was doing a hundred and ten down the cobbled hill when I passed the Italian and tried to make the turn tae the right. The car swung around like an ice skater and hit one of the sandbags. I got doon on the floor and Randy piled intae me. There were five cars in that wreck, and three of the drivers were killed. Four people who were watching from the sandbags died too. Randy lost his foot.

"After that, I swore I'd never race again. And I never have. Randy tried tae get me back driving. He said if I didn't go back I'd be a beaten man all me life. Well, maybe I am a beaten man. But to this day I canna' look at a racing car without being filled wi' mortal fear. When I agreed tae go wi' you and Steve tae the technical inspection, I was trying tae get over some of that fear. I thought it might have left me. But it hadn't. And when I agreed tae work in the pit wi' Randy, it was for the same reason.

"I'm sorry now I did. Randy would hae been killed, nae doot. But I'd have had no part in it." He paused and flicked the butt of his cigarette deftly into a bucket of water.

"Ye'll be wondering why I'm telling ye all this, nae doot," he said. "Weel, it's on account of yon Black Tiger. Mark my words, they'll no find any racing driver wi' any experience that'll undertake tae handle her. Yon car's a killer as I said before. I'm thinking that they'll be asking you. Ye drive well. I've watched ye. Ye drive like I used tae drive when I was racing. I've looked at ye going roond the track and seen meself twenty years ago.

"But dinna make the mistake I made—Randy too. Dinna' go on wi' yere driving until ye've killed seven people just because ye wanted tae drive a new car first past the finish line.

"I'll never forget those people, laddie. Never. And I've a horror of racing now that won't leave me until I've drawn my last breath."

Woody now understood fully Worm's strange reaction to the Black Tiger and his reluctance to be associated with road racing in any way. But there was something else he wanted to know. He remembered how Randy, over dinner, had told him that road racing condensed all the challenges of life into a few minutes. He recalled Randy's saying that all drivers were scared but if a man gave way to fear he would be beaten for the rest of his life.

"Tell me, Worm," he said. "Did you quit racing because of the accident—because of the people you killed though it was not your fault? Or did you quit because you were scared of getting killed yourself? Because you didn't want to take any more chances."

"But they knew the risk they were taking when they came to watch the race," Woody persisted. "They knew a car might get out of control. Yet they came and sat on top of the sandbags."

Worm made no comment on this for a while. He got up moodily from his seat and looked out of the window. "Randy told me that mony a time," he said. "If I face the matter squarely, I quit because I was afraid." The sentence was uttered in almost a whisper.

Worm's forecast that Woody would be asked to drive the Black Tiger was not long in coming true. A week after her telephone call, Rocky dropped in to see him. She drove into the garage in her MG, and although Worm was delighted to see the daughter of his old friend, it was plain that he was worried too.

"Mind what I told ye," he said privately to Woody. "Dinna' let her talk ye into driving yon Black Tiger. It's nae worth the risk."

Woody and Rocky went to dinner and then for a drive and a talk. For a while nothing was said about the Black Tiger, though Woody knew very well that that was the object of the visit. Rocky was apparently waiting for Woody to bring up the subject, and he was determined that he wouldn't.

"The Black Tiger is being completely overhauled and repaired," she said. "It will be ready to race again soon. The factory sent a man over to supervise the work. They installed a completely new brake system. The factory man said the car had been dropped on the way over, and that was why the steering knuckle broke and also why the brakes went out. There was just the tiniest rupture in the master cylinder, but with the constant braking during two races the rupture widened and the fluid drained out."

"Gee, I'm glad to hear they found the trouble and the car is being fixed," Woody said.

"We haven't been able to get a driver," Rocky continued. "I'd drive it myself, but it wouldn't be the same thing. They have special races for women, as you know, and to prove its worth the Black Tiger has to be driven in a man's race."

"It's the old trouble," Rocky went on. "The car has got the reputation of being a killer. Nobody wants to risk driving it because it's so new. But it isn't a killer at all. I believe what Randy used to say. No cars are killers. New ones may have bugs in them that have to be found out. But that's been true of every car ever designed. Racing finds out the troubles and provides better and safer cars for people to drive.

"Lots of safety features on automobiles today were developed out of experience gained in road racing," she continued. "Four-wheel brakes are one of them. So are rear-vision mirrors and better tires. More people are driving with safety belts on long trips, and that's saving a lot of lives. In the early days of racing, Daddy told me, fly-wheels used to explode and kill drivers. But who ever heard of a flywheel exploding these days? Racing drivers showed how to make better ones. Every time there's an accident on a track, people say that road racing should be banned or that a particular car is a killer. But the automobile industry would not be where it is today if it wasn't for road racing."

Still Woody said nothing. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach because he knew what was coming. The palms of his hands felt moist, and he could feel his heart beating faster. He tried to temporize.

"Because he said it was way ahead of any other racing car yet designed," Rocky replied. "The factory is planning to put out a small family car based on the Black Tiger engine. It would give about fifty miles to a gallon of gas, could be driven in any climate because the engine is air-cooled. That means no radiator to overheat in summer or freeze in winter. And it would sell for less than a thousand dollars. But all that depends on the Black Tiger being shown to be an efficient engine and chassis design.

"Daddy never said anything to me about it. But I found out through his will that he had put all his savings into the project. He believed in the Black Tiger that much. He used to say he'd spent all his life looking for a perfect automobile and had found it in the Black Tiger. Now his life's work will be wrecked unless we can find someone to drive the Tiger." She looked across at Woody, hesitated, and then said.

"Daddy was very fond of you. He told me that you'd make a great racing driver someday. He said you had a natural flair for it, and the sort of courage that it takes. Woody, I hate to ask you, knowing the reputation the Black Tiger has. I'm only asking because so much of Randy's hopes were tied up in the car. Will you race it—not for me but for him? For all he did for automobile racing and design?"

Woody had his answer ready, but he couldn't get it out. It seemed to him that Randy was nearby and hanging on his answer. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say that he, too, believed the Black Tiger was a man-killer. He wanted to break down and confess that he was scared to death every time he raced a car and that fear, heavy as a shroud, clung to him through every moment of a race. But he could not get the words out of his mouth.

Rocky brightened immediately. "Woody," she exclaimed, "you're wonderful." And she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

"I didn't expect you to answer right away," replied Rocky. "I know you have to talk to your mother and father. But if you explain everything to them, I know they will agree."

"Daddy always felt bad about Worm," Rocky went on, slowly. "He believed up to the last that all Worm had to do was turn around and face his fear and he would be happy again. He's not happy now, you know. That's why Daddy got him in his pit crew and brought the Black Tiger to his garage for tuning. It wasn't really that he couldn't get the tuning done anywhere else. He thought if he could get Worm back into racing, he would get over his fears. Daddy was always doing things like that for people without their knowing it. He used to say that fear was just a continuing sense of shock. It could be cured, he thought, if faced."

Rocky didn't know how deeply these words affected Woody. He felt that Randy was talking to him; that Randy knew the struggle in his mind and was trying to sort it out for him. He could almost hear the bright, gallant voice, not blaming him but understanding and trying to help him get over his own fears.

"Whatever your answer," Rocky said, "I'll always be grateful to you. The others just said no. You at least are willing."

That evening Woody bitterly regretted that he also had not given a flat no to Rocky's request. If he had done so, it would be settled and he would have been saved a lot of mental and emotional turmoil. When he got home he found his father was out of town on business and would not be back for two or three days. Woody would have liked to talk to his father about driving the Black Tiger in the hope that he would be forbidden to race. That would solve the matter by putting the blame for the decision on someone else. Woody didn't feel exactly comfortable at that thought but was looking for a way to escape making the decision himself.

It was no good talking to Worm. Worm would only insist that he refuse to drive the Black Tiger. And Worm was really in the same position in regard to racing as himself. If Tom Wisdom or any of the other drivers he'd met had been around, he would have consulted them for their views. But Woody didn't know where they lived and had no way of finding out.

In the end, desperate for someone to talk his problem over with, Woody took it to Mary Jane. He didn't really think she could help him with it. He already knew her views on road racing. But at least she was someone to talk to. He was too ashamed to unburden himself to Steve.

To his surprise, Mary Jane's reaction was quite different from what he had expected. He told her everything, not sparing his own feelings in any way. Though he blushed while doing so, he confessed that he was scared of racing and had many times missed chances on the track through sheer fear. He said he had been afraid even to talk of his fear and now was in the predicament of being asked to drive the Black Tiger. He confessed that he was mortally afraid of doing it and also afraid of refusing, both because of his reputation and what it might do to his morale.

Mary Jane didn't interrupt once while he was talking. When he had finished, she said:

"Woody Hartford, you're the most mixed-up person I ever met. There's nothing for you to do but drive the Black Tiger. I'm surprised you can't see that yourself."

"Look," Mary Jane continued. "You know how I hated the way you were always spending time and money on Cindy Lou. I still don't see that it's important for one driver to prove he can go faster than another. And I don't see that it's important for people to keep building faster cars. If you were going to drive the Black Tiger just to show that it would go faster than those Ferraris or what-nots, I'd tell you not to be so silly.

"But that's no longer the reason. The reason now is to show that you've got the courage to drive the car even though you're afraid of it. That's a very important reason. It's much more important than all that stuff about developing safer cars and so on.

"You've just got to drive the Black Tiger. That's all there is to it. Otherwise you won't be Woody Hartford any more. And the person I'm interested in is Woody Hartford."

"Certainly. I wouldn't want to have anything more to do with you if you didn't. If I was afraid of it, I'd drive it. You don't have to win. All you've got to do is try to win and show that you're prepared to take the same chances that other drivers in the race accept.

"I used to say that all your interest in racing and racing cars was juvenile. So it was. All you were interested in then was the speed and the roar of the engines and the glamour. But now it isn't juvenile at all. You're growing up. If you race the Black Tiger, it will show that you've grown up enough to be called a man.

"And," Mary Jane concluded, "when I get married, I want it to be to a man, even if he does have to spend the rest of his life in greasy overalls."

The biggest opposition to Woody's driving the Black Tiger came from Worm. Woody had thought that both his mother and father would be dead set against it. They did not, indeed, welcome the prospect. Woody decided to tell his father about it when they were alone and again to explain all his reasons fully. When he had finished Mr. Hartford said, "Woody, is this what has been on your mind all the time?"

"I see why you didn't feel you could discuss it with me. In any case, discussion is rather futile. There are some things people just have to decide by themselves and this is one of them. I don't pretend that I like the idea of your driving that car. I wish there was some honorable way out of it. But there isn't. You'd better let me tell your mother, though. I think I can explain the situation better than you.

"This is where being a parent is really tough," he added with a faint smile. "My whole instinct is to forbid you to race—to protect you from danger. But I know that would be the wrong thing to do. Son, promise me that.... Well, I was going to say promise me that you won't take any unnecessary chances. But that would be silly. Promise me that if the car shows any serious defects before the race, you will have sense enough to realize that you don't have to go through with this."

"I promise," said Woody. "The car will be in perfect mechanical condition. Otherwise the deal will be off. I'll go over it myself, and I'll get Worm to help me."

Worm was furious when Woody told him. His face went white, and for a while he was unable to say anything. When he did he called Woody a fool and a lunatic and said he wouldn't have anything to do with the Black Tiger and would not help Woody in any way.

This was a heavy blow. Woody didn't really know enough about the mechanics of racing cars to check the Tiger over thoroughly. He waited for Worm to calm down and then decided to tackle him again.

"Worm," he said, "you don't understand about me and the Black Tiger. I'd like to explain to you."

"There's nae explanation for a mon deciding tae drive a car that's only been in two races and has had an accident each time, other than lunacy," Worm snapped.

"Well, maybe it is lunacy," replied Woody. "But Dad doesn't seem to think so. And neither does Mary Jane."

"There's only one! I'm afraid. I'm afraid to drive any racing car. I became afraid the first race I was in when I nearly hit a telephone pole, and I've been scared ever since. I was even more scared after the Black Tiger—after Randy was killed in the Black Tiger. And the only way for me to get my courage back is to drive the car in a race. That's all."

When he had finished, Worm's long pale face was a study. He opened his mouth to say something and then snapped it shut without uttering a word. He stared at Woody in silence for several seconds and then walked out of the office where the conversation had taken place. He stayed away for several minutes, just standing outside the garage with his thin hands on his hips and staring at his feet. Then he fished for a cigarette, lit it, took a puff on it, threw it away, and came back into the office.

"Gie me yere hand, laddie," he said. "I'm ashamed of meself. Ye've got more guts than I have, for ye're doing the thing I should have done meself fifteen years ago. If I'd driven in just one more race after that accident, I'd have been a happier mon today. Instead, I've been fifteen years wi' a nightmare. Ah, well. 'Tis never too late tae mend, they say. I'm wi' ye in this. I'll go over yon Black Tiger wi' a fine-tooth comb and a magnet. I'll do more than that. I'll take it out on the desert roads wi' ye and test it meself. I'll corner it and brake it and pour the coal tae it until I've driven oot any bugs there are in it meself, or me name is not William Orville Randolph McNess of Aberdeen.

"Weel, get on the phone and tell her noo. Dinna' worry aboot the charges. I'll stand them meself. The Hieland Scots, ye understand, are a generous race of people, and 'tis one of the main faults in them."

When Woody in the next few minutes called Rocky to say he'd drive the Black Tiger for her, she was jubilant. She said she'd bring the car up the very next day so that there would be ample time to check it and test it before the Pebble Beach race, which was the event in which it would be entered.

It was not long before the news that the Tiger was to be raced again reached the sports columns. And Woody found himself a combination of hero and lunatic over night. One Los Angeles evening paper devoted half a page to an article and pictures of the Black Tiger. A reporter interviewed Woody for the story, and the gist of the article was that Woody was prepared to stake his life to show the car was the fastest and safest racing machine ever to come into the country.

Other columnists dredged up stories of other "wonder cars" that had been wrecked and scrapped as unpractical. Woody was asked to lecture at the local high school on racing and road safety and was voted by the Junior Chamber of Commerce as the young citizen most likely to succeed. Some papers tried to draw a likeness between him and some of the old-time racing greats like Barney Oldfield, and all in all, he got more publicity than he ever would have thought likely in his entire life.

Worm was as good as his word both in checking and testing the car. He closed down his garage for a week to devote his time to the Black Tiger. He crawled all over it, with Davie's Problems and Principles of Internal Combustion Engines open on the workbench for ready reference. And then, one Saturday, he and Woody drove the Black Tiger out to a deserted piece of highway in the Mojave desert to give it a thorough road test.

The piece of road selected was an old highway now replaced by a modern four-lane thoroughfare. Because it was old, and therefore full of turns and twists, it was ideal for the purpose, and the Highway Patrol gave permission for the tests to be held.

The Highway Patrol also co-operated in not saying anything about the tests, so Woody and Worm had the strip of road, three miles long, to themselves. They worked out a route, partially on the disused road, partially across a desert track, so they had a rough circle to represent a race track.

"I'll put her through ten laps, laddie, just tae see how she handles," Worm said. "You stay here and time me wi' the stop watch. It's aboot three miles aroond, which is average for race tracks here in California."

Woody nodded, and Worm got into the driver's seat. His white face seemed even whiter, but his thin hands were quite steady as he buckled on his safety belt. Then he put on his crash helmet and adjusted the goggles over his eyes. He squirmed around in the seat, feeling the controls with his feet. He switched on the ignition and fired the Black Tiger up. Woody caught a glimpse of his eyes behind the goggles. They seemed big, and there was a dullness that suggested fear. Worm turned his head slowly and looked full at him. Then he gave Woody a wink, made monstrous by the glass shield of the goggles, took a deep breath, and let out the clutch.

The Black Tiger roared into life and shot down the old asphalt road. Woody grinned. It had been a bigger struggle for Worm, he knew, to drive the Black Tiger, than it would be for him. And Worm had made it.

Worm's first two laps were anything but impressive. He seemed to be driving with such extreme caution that it would not have been difficult to keep up with him in a much less powerful car. But when Worm passed Woody for the third time, he took one hand off the steering wheel, waved, and hit the accelerator. It seemed to Woody as if the Black Tiger was melting in the sun, it disappeared from view so fast. There was a corner about two hundred yards from the starting place, and Worm took this without even skidding his wheels. He reappeared over the top of a hill and plunged down again, the Tiger roaring its enjoyment of the game. As he flashed by again, Woody saw that Worm was driving like Randy used to. He was sitting well back in his seat, almost lolling there. His hands held the steering wheel in a light grip. And there was a smile on his thin face.

Worm did more than ten laps. It was fifteen before he stopped the Black Tiger, unfastened his safety belt, and climbed out of the seat.

"Gee," said Woody, "I was so nervous about you that I forgot to use the stop watch."

"Nervous about me!" exclaimed Worm. "Why, laddie, I was driving cars wi' twice the horsepower of yon Black Tiger before ye were born." But he gave Woody another of his rare winks, and his face was beaming. He looked, in fact, quite young again.

It was now Woody's turn, and he got behind the wheel and fastened his safety belt. "There's nothing wrong wi' her that I can find," said Worm. "She corners better than any car I've ever handled. The main thing is tae get the feel of her. Take her aroond slowly at first till ye know how fast she turns when ye pull the wheel over. Change doon and try tae make her slide on corners. Find oot when she breaks out of a slide. Take it easy at first. We've got all day. Make her do what you want her tae do—not what she wants tae do. That's the whole secret of driving."

Woody looked along the low slim hood in front of him and at the dashboard with its telltale dials. Tachometer. Speedometer. Oil-pressure gauge. Water-temperature gauge. Gas gauge. Each was a separate dial. He slipped the gearshift into low and started off.

His confidence had been restored to some extent by watching Worm, but he took the first two laps slowly, studying the reactions of the car. She seemed all power and eagerness. Corners taken at sixty-five miles an hour on the asphalt didn't bother her. She slipped smoothly in and out of gear but seemed to be constantly straining to go faster.

On the fourth lap of the makeshift course, Woody decided to let the Tiger go all out. He flashed passed Worm, his engine roaring, changed down at the first corner at the bottom of a dip, was around and over the top of a small hill before he realized it, and headed down a quarter mile of straight at the end of which was a right-angle bend onto the desert strip. Woody hit his brakes, changed down again for the bend, then stamped hard on the accelerator. The Black Tiger screamed off the asphalt onto the dirt strip of the desert, broadsided for a second, righted herself, and was off again.

Five laps, and Woody felt that he knew the car. He also felt more sure of himself. There were one or two moments when his old panic threatened to return. But he managed to fight it down. He did well for eight laps going full bore around the course. The Black Tiger was certainly all that Randy had ever said of it. Acceleration in all four gears was instant and powerful. She cornered without any fuss. He never had to fight to get her under control after a full power drift around a bend. One touch of his foot on the accelerator and she came out straight as an arrow.

And yet Woody was conscious of being tense all the time. He couldn't lean back in the seat relaxed like Randy and Worm and become, as they did, part of the engine. There was a tiny spark of uneasiness and distrust in the bottom of his mind all the time.

He was waiting, he knew, for something to go wrong; for the steering to go out or a tire to blow. He couldn't quite trust the Black Tiger—couldn't quite shake out of his mind the thought that it was waiting to spring some unsuspected trap upon him.

When he was through with the trial runs, Worm said, "Weel, laddie, how did she handle?"

They both looked at the sleek black lines of the car. Even in the hot desert sun they seemed menacing.

Woody had a bad headache and a strong suspicion that the meager breakfast he had eaten that morning was not going to stay with him very long. He wished he could go away somewhere out of the bright, merciless sunlight and be quietly sick all by himself. It occurred to him that if there was just half a chance of getting away with it, he'd sneak off into the crowd on the other side of the snow fence and disappear among them. But that was impossible. Someone would spot him and he would be brought back again for the sacrifice.

For that's exactly what he felt like—a sacrifice that was about to be offered to a god called the Black Tiger for the edification of a lot of worshipers who called themselves sports-car fans.

Woody was sitting on the grass on one side of the starting area of the Pebble Beach racecourse. Across the track from him was a row of cars facing outward as if they were in a parking lot. Among them was the Black Tiger. They all seemed to be grinning malevolently. The Black Tiger was sixth in line, and there were twenty-two cars in all drawn up for the Le Mans start of the fifth event. That was the race to which he was committed—the race in which he was to be given his chance to recover and demonstrate his courage; the race in which he was to prove that the Black Tiger was, despite its record of accidents, a first-class racing machine.

Woody was glad of one thing. Mary Jane wasn't nearby, nor were his father and mother, nor Rocky, Steve, nor Worm. His mother and dad were somewhere in the mass of spectators with Mary Jane. Rocky, Steve, and Worm were in the pit area forming his pit crew. He was glad they weren't with him, because in their presence he had to keep up a pretense of confidence. And right at that moment he hadn't a hairsbreadth of confidence in his whole body.

It had been tough trying to hide his fears all morning while four other races were run. He had become so nervous with everybody wishing him well and fussing over the car that he could hardly do a simple little thing like adjust his racing mirrors to get a clear view of his rear and two rear fenders.

Worm, he was sure, had noticed that he was nervous. But Worm hadn't said anything, and Woody was glad. Worm had just busied himself checking the ignition and the spark-plug gaps and taping the headlights.

When Rocky had asked him how he felt, he'd replied, in a voice that didn't sound like his own at all, that he felt fine.

Then Rocky had suggested that he look over the map of the track. But try as he would to memorize it, none of the details would stay with him. He told himself that it didn't matter anyway. He'd had enough racing experience to know that what the track looked like on paper wasn't at all what it was like when you drove over it. Turns that seemed like slow curves turned out to be pretty sharp. And there was no indication of whether they were banked or not.

Furthermore, the map of the track didn't have anything to say about road surfaces. It didn't say anything about trees, and the Pebble Beach track was studded with trees. There were a lot of hills on it too, and most of the corners leaped up suddenly at you from behind a clump of trees or beyond the brow of a hill. That much he learned from talking to the other drivers. It was, they all agreed, the most difficult track in Southern California. Or as they put it—the sportiest.

Tom Wisdom was sitting beside Woody in the sun, looking at his driving boots. He had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, but it had gone out.

Woody said he hadn't without even looking through his pockets. He wished he hadn't been asked. He just wanted to be left alone right at the present moment.

"Feeling a little shaky?" Tom asked. His voice was friendly, and he smiled in a kindly way as he put the question.

Woody decided to abandon all his pretenses. "I sure am," he said. "If I could get the heck out of here and disappear for five years into China, I would."

Tom laughed. "You wouldn't be alone," he said. "Look at Kurt over there." Kurt Kreuger was squatted on his heels carefully taking a cigarette to pieces. Even at a distance of several yards, Woody could see that his hands were far from steady.

"Kurt always tears paper when he's keyed up," Tom said. "I smoke cigarettes that have gone out." He took the dead cigarette from between his lips, examined it with a smile, and flicked it onto the track.

"We've three or four minutes yet," he said. "Did you look over the track?" Woody nodded.

"It's pretty rough," Tom continued. "But remember, it's just as rough for the other boys as it is for you. There isn't much I can tell you at this point that would do any good. But remember, when you jump into your car, fasten your safety belt. Don't take off without doing that." He lapsed into silence, got out another cigarette, found an old match folder with one last match, took a puff or two, and looked down toward the starter.

For the next two minutes it seemed to Woody everything around became very quiet. The row of cars on the opposite side of the track looked as grim as gladiators about to enter an arena. Woody eyed the Black Tiger, and in that moment he hated her. She seemed both impersonal and cruel to him. A cricket started a shrill chirruping in the grass behind him, and he experienced a sudden flush of irritation at the sound. The sun beat down bright and merciless on the asphalt before him. The starter stood talking to two other men. He seemed cheerful and untroubled, and Woody conceived an enormous dislike of him. Why didn't he just drop his flag and get it over with? Why stand around there chewing the fat when everybody was sitting with his nerves on edge?

The loud-speaker blared suddenly. "One minute to go," the announcer said. "I'll count out the seconds. Fifty-five. Fifty. Forty-five...."

It's coming now, Woody said to himself. Just a few seconds more. He felt suddenly panicky, as if he were paralyzed and wouldn't be able to run to his car. Kurt Kreuger was still shredding a cigarette.

"Twenty-five. Twenty. Fifteen," said the announcer. Suddenly it was time. The big green flag in the starter's hand came down, and Woody found himself sprinting on wobbly knees over to the Black Tiger. He was hardly in the seat before a Jag beside him started with a roar and shot off down the track. He saw Tom Wisdom and Kurt Kreuger take off while he was still fumbling with his safety belt. Two more cars roared by, and at last he got the belt fastened. He switched on the ignition, pressed the starter button, let out the clutch, and roared away himself. His hands and arms were trembling violently. He wanted to be sick, and he could hardly see. He denounced himself as a fool for having ever got into the race. But there was no getting out of it now. He couldn't call into the pits. He couldn't get out of the car. He had to go on.

The first lap Woody did in a kind of nightmare. Turns appeared unexpectedly before him, and he took them, fighting down a rising panic. Cars roared by, sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other, and he let them go. His only concern was to get around as many times as was necessary and then get out of the Black Tiger and leave it and never see it again.

Actually, in the first lap, he lost only two places. In the starting line-up he had been sixth. At the end of the first lap, he was eighth. He caught a glimpse of Worm as he passed by the start-finish line after the first lap. Worm was holding up a blackboard with the figure 8 upon it. Woody was surprised. He had been sure more cars than that were ahead of him. The news served to steady him a little. He pushed down on the accelerator and concentrated on a Mercedes ahead. It was green and had a big twelve on the back. He could scarcely see the top of the driver's helmet, and he did not know who he was. But he decided he would try to pass.

The distance between the two cars diminished slightly. Woody pressed the accelerator down farther. The Black Tiger's note changed to a piercing scream. Woody could feel the car pick up speed, and the Mercedes seemed to be drawn toward him. Then he saw the tail light flash red and knew the driver was braking for a corner. Woody touched his brakes also and in the same moment changed down.

Something inside of him said, "Now," and the voice sounded like Randy's. Woody stomped on the accelerator and pulled over to the right. He went by the Mercedes in a flash and found a sharp corner ahead. He braked again, changed down to second, and hit the accelerator once more. The rear end of the Black Tiger slewed around as he turned the steering wheel. But she straightened out like a champion and was off down the straightaway in a second. In his rear-vision mirror Woody caught a glimpse of the Mercedes he had just passed. It was gaining on him. Ahead was a sharp hill, and he could not remember what was beyond. He left the car in second and accelerated. The Black Tiger roared, breasted the top of the hill, and there ahead were three cars in a huddle, braking for what must be a sharp bend.

On either side of the track, perhaps ten feet from the shoulder, were pine trees, with barricades of hay bales among them. There was no room to get through the cars ahead, and the Mercedes was now pressing on his tail. Woody braked and skittered around the corner on the heels of the three cars. Then he saw, just for a second, a gap in them. It was about a foot wider than the Black Tiger. No more.

"Here goes," Woody said to himself and opened the throttle. The effect was as if a jet engine had been added to the Black Tiger's power plant. She literally leaped through the gap. There was a slight bump, and he knew that he had touched the rear fender of one of the cars. But other than that he got away clear. The Mercedes that had been challenging him was left in the melee of cars he had just passed.

Ahead now the road was straight but ran over a series of hills. Woody recalled that stretch and knew that there was perhaps three-quarters of a mile of it with a series of S-bends, followed by a hairpin at the end.

"Give her the gun," the voice inside him said again. It was still Randy's voice. Woody opened the throttle, his foot pressed to the floor board, and the Black Tiger flung down the track. Woody looked at his speedometer. One hundred and ten, one hundred and twenty, one hundred and thirty. He saw a Jag ahead and flashed past so close he could, for a second, feel the warmth of the other's exhaust. He was doing a hundred and forty plus when he entered the S-bends and braked down.

On the first bend, the Black Tiger nearly turned over. She seemed to crouch over on her side, and Woody's foot slipped off the accelerator. But then she recovered, veered a little under his unsteady hands at the wheel, and shot off for the next bend. Woody decided to straighten that one out. He would cut the corners on it and take the risk that there might be a car ahead hidden from him. There wasn't a car ahead, but on the third of the S-bends, which lay just over the top of a hill, there was one right in the spot he was aiming at.

Without knowing quite why he did it, Woody changed down to third and, reacting instinctively, pulled the Black Tiger over and hit the gas. She went by the car—a Jag—in a cloud of dust.

Then came the hairpin. If Woody had not changed down on the last S-bend he would certainly never have made the corner. As it was he had to hit his brakes until all four wheels screamed their protest. But he managed to claw around the hairpin.

The next time he passed the start-finish line he saw Worm again for a brief flash holding up the blackboard. On it was a big figure 4.

For the next four laps Woody held his position, neither passing anybody nor being passed. But he became more familiar with the track. Bends no longer appeared unexpectedly before him. He found the reason why he had nearly turned over on the one S-bend before the hairpin. It was banked in the wrong direction so that the weight of a car cornering on it was thrown downhill.

This piece of knowledge tucked into his mind he determined to put to good use if he could get within passing distance of the Ferrari ahead. If he could get on the near side of the Ferrari on that S-bend, the driver would either have to let him by or run the risk of turning over in making the corner.

It took him two laps to get into position for the try. All the while he studied the driver's tactics. He belonged to the close-cornering school. He went into all his bends as near to the inside as he could, and only skidded away from that position when he was most of the way around. If he did that on the first S-bend, he wouldn't be able to do it on the second, for he would have skidded wide, Woody told himself. That would give him an opportunity to take over the inside position and pass.

The plan worked to perfection. The driver of the Ferrari took the first S tight in against the corner and went wide for the second. Woody saw his braking lights flash and a gap just big enough for him to get through on the inside of the track. It would be there for only a second. But Woody jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator and shot through. When he passed Worm again, the figure on the blackboard was 3.

Now a curious reaction set in. Woody had started the race in panic and had somehow fought that down, becoming too absorbed in the driving to think of anything else. But now he thought of Randy. In his two races, Randy had always done well until he got to second place. Then the Black Tiger had gone out of control.

His fears and distrust of the car, which had for a while left him, began to return, though he fought against them. He knew who was ahead—Kurt Kreuger in his Jag and Tom Wisdom in his Ferrari. They were the same two that Randy had been killed trying to pass. Woody's heart started to pound, and unconsciously he took his foot off the accelerator. The Black Tiger seemed to slump as if it had hit a patch of thick glue, there was a loud roar, and the Ferrari, which he had been at such pains to pass, buzzed by him. He was back to fourth place again.

A Mercedes and a Cad-Allard were coming up behind him. Only the fact that they had to slow down for the corner ahead prevented their passing him. Woody felt his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. The muscles of his legs seemed to go rigid, and he felt he had no control over his feet.

Somehow he got around the corner, and somehow he kept his foot down on the accelerator when he hit the straightaway, but his heart was not in it. He was afraid again, and this time he knew the fear was going to remain. He recalled how he had nearly turned over on the S-bend and how he had skidded broadside around one corner, and the spirit went out of him. The Jag passed him easily and so did the Mercedes, the driver flashing him a puzzled look as he went by.

Then Randy said something to him—or so it seemed. He said, "Relax. Lean back. You can't drive all crouched over the wheel." Woody leaned back against the seat. The feel of it on the back of his shoulders gave him comfort.

"You passed those boys before," said Randy's voice. "You can do it again. Try it on the S-bends. Go full bore and trust to luck. You're driving a better car than you think."

The S-bends were ahead, and the three cars were just entering them. Woody looked at his speedometer. A hundred and twenty-five. He wanted to brake, then change down, and take the bends more slowly. Instead, he pressed the accelerator and flung into the first bend as if it wasn't there.

He hardly saw the Mercedes as he went by, taking it on the outside. He was on the inside position on the second bend—the one that was banked the wrong way. The Jag ahead had flung wide and was trying hard to get into position. There was a sharp jolt as Woody streaked past it. But he didn't bother even to look in his rear-vision mirror. He was fourth again. There were three cars ahead, and he knew now that he could pass them. Or rather he knew that he wouldn't hold back from trying. He couldn't explain why it was that his panic had left. It was there in full force a few minutes ago, and now there was not a vestige of it. Instead he was leaning back against the seat. His hands and legs were steady. His brain was clear, and his emotions were under control. His only desire was to go faster and drive better.

By the fifteenth lap Woody had won back to third position again. Kurt had pulled ahead of Tom Wisdom. Woody had a warm feeling for the two of them. He experienced a warm feeling, too, for the Black Tiger. The roar of her engine, which before had frightened him, now made his heart sing. He loved the way she handled and her enormous gallantry on corners.

He knew that she had it in her to win the race, and he was ashamed that he had penalized her with his own fears.

The last two laps were, for everybody, the most exciting of the race. On the straightaway approaching the hairpin, Woody drew wheel to wheel with Tom Wisdom who looked briefly at him and winked. But Tom wasn't giving anything. He hugged the corner tight—so tight that Woody had to follow him around, for it was too sharp to take wide. Woody drew ahead briefly approaching the right-angle bend after the start-finish line. But he was not sufficiently ahead to pull over and crowd Tom behind him. They took the corner wheel to wheel, but since Woody was on the outside, Tom was slightly ahead when they got around it. Woody had only one more chance to pass—on the S-bends where he had made most of his conquests. But Tom knew those S-bends even better than Woody did. He never gave the Black Tiger a chance. And when the checkered finish flag fluttered down before them, it was Kurt Kreuger first, Tom Wisdom second, and Woody Hartford third.

Rocky was first to greet him when he returned to the pit. "You were wonderful," she said. "Wonderful. Daddy always said you'd make a great driver." And she flung her arms around him and gave him a kiss.

When he got free of Rocky and Worm it was to find Mary Jane standing by the car. She didn't say anything. She just smiled and looked very proud.

That night a victory dinner was held at a hotel in Monterey where the dining room had been taken over for the occasion. Woody, Mary Jane, Worm, Rocky, Steve, and Woody's parents attended. It was something of a battle to get into the hotel, for all the drivers who had participated in the race were there. There were perhaps three hundred cars crowded into the parking lot and lining the adjoining streets. The city, in fact, became a racing center for the night, and radio and television men were covering the event in full force.

Tom Wisdom and Kurt Kreuger both grabbed hold of Woody as he entered the hotel lobby.

"You're coming with us," they said, and they dragged him off to a seat at the head table. The Mayor presided at the banquet, and there were officials of the state government and a number of sports-car organizations. Woody couldn't remember how many people he was introduced to by Tom Wisdom, who had taken him under his wing.

"You drove the finest race I've seen in a long time," Tom said. "Kurt and I are both agreed on that. Right before the start, to be honest, I didn't know whether you were going to make it. But you came through like a veteran. You had me plenty worried those last few laps."

"Say, Kurt," said Tom. "What were you doing right before the race tearing up all those cigarettes?"

"Well, if I was, I didn't know about it. But right before the start I'd made up my mind that this was the last race I was ever going to drive in. That's how I felt."

"Right now," said Kurt, "I think that was the silliest decision I ever made in my life."

The Mayor presented Kurt with the trophy for first place—a cup of such proportions that Worm said afterward it was big enough to boil a haggis in. When Kurt had accepted it and expressed his thanks, he paused for a minute, looked around the room, and said, "Most of you people here tonight are drivers or mechanics or fans who are interested in sports-car racing. It's a new sport in the United States, but it is rapidly developing to the point where it's becoming a national sport. Its long-range results will be better cars, with more safety features and better drivers.

"Some of you guys, like me, have been in the game a long time. We know that it isn't the winner who makes the race. It's all the other competitors who are in there trying to win and their mechanics who put in a lot of unpaid work fixing up their cars. It takes just as much guts to lose a race as it does to win one. What I'm trying to say is that it's the effort that matters and the courage that goes into it. Not the result.

"In this connection, I think there's one driver here tonight who is more entitled to this trophy than I. Before I mention his name, I'll tell you something about him. He's a pretty young guy, and he's been racing something less than a year.

"He didn't drive any well-known make of car. In fact, the car he drove had a hundred per cent accident record. It had been on the track only twice before. The first time its steering went out. The second time the brakes failed and the driver, Jimmy Randolph, was killed.

"Randy believed in that car, and a lot of us were asked to race it after his death. I was one of the people asked, and I refused. I refused because I didn't trust it, and I believed that it might crack up again. A lot of the rest of us turned the car down for the same reasons.

"But one guy didn't turn it down. He probably had the same doubts and fears to overcome that we had. But he had the guts to put them aside and drive the car anyway.

"He drove a magnificent race, despite his inexperience. And he brought a great new car to American tracks. It's hardly necessary for me now to identify either the car or the driver. But I will do so anyway. The car is the Black Tiger and the driver, Woody Hartford—"

If Kurt was going to say any more, he didn't get a chance for fully ten minutes. Cheer after cheer filled the banquet room, and Tom and another man on Woody's left picked him up and stood him upon a chair for everyone to see. Woody's legs were trembling again, but this time he didn't care.

When some order was finally restored, Kurt continued. "Just before this banquet," he said, "without Woody's knowing anything about it, some of the other drivers and I had a meeting with the track officials and those who donated this trophy. We all agreed that while I might have won it by being first, the guy who really deserves to get it is young Woody Hartford. So come right over here, Woody, and take this trophy, for it really belongs to you."

Woody got down shakily from the chair and took the trophy. He didn't know what to say, and for five minutes he didn't have to say anything for the cheering went on for that time. When finally there was enough silence for him to make himself heard, all he could get out was, "Gee. Thanks."

Kurt took the microphone back again. "I think Woody has a lot more to say than that," he said. "But right at the present time, his clutch is slipping. So we'll let him off. We know how he feels anyway.

"Just one more piece of news and then I'll sit down. Most of you older drivers remember a great racing driver who was a friend of Randy's in the old days. His name is William Orville Randolph McNess, commonly known as Worm.

"Those who knew Worm ten or fifteen years ago know that he's been fighting a private battle of his own. I won't go into the details. All I want to say is that between Randy, Woody, and the Black Tiger, Worm seems to have won that battle. At least I heard him cautiously inquiring the price of an XK140 Jag, and I'll be very surprised if at the next event, we don't have to contend with him as well as young Woody."

There was another outburst of cheering at this announcement and Worm's back was thoroughly pummeled to an impromptu chorus of "He's a Jolly Good Fellow."

When it was all over, Woody and Worm met outside beside the Black Tiger. Worm patted it affectionately.

"You should have called it a man-maker instead," said Mary Jane coming up out of the darkness.

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THE BLACK TIGER

By PATRICK O'CONNOR

THE BLACK TIGER

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