Evening star., 1925-11-01

quet room. Blubber Doyle whispered
to- Cheever: The old boys going to
hit the hay early. He's sure got his
work cut out for him tomorrow. Chet
Gibson and the Swede-"
Il know" whispered Cheever. Il
heard all about it. They're going to
try and run his wheels off. But the
man we've got to watch is De Pulva.
The wop is going out for it, and take
it from me-that bird can drive when
the moneys up. This race is going
to be won in the pits
Well" said Blubber, "all you have
to do is loop your arms and come in.
I'll change all four wheels in 20 sec
onds'
Yes, YOU will"'
Yes. 1 will,'' said Blubber. "You
wait and see.' But for once the fat
man was wrong, for Wild Tom Mere
dith was destined never to come into
! the pits again. 1t was De Pulva' $
tires that We're to be changed on the
morrow in world record time.
x x 4 x
OUTSIDE in the darkness, the speed
~ hero of America skirted Calora' 5
single street. now noisy and illumined,
and found his way to the familiar lane
OF sycamores that had been his aisle
of alteration" as a boy. The years
fell from him, and again he was a
village vagabond seeking the shrine Of
the only one who would understand.
The moon was in its last quarter.
Nothing much had changed; the same
moon, the same shrill call of crickets,
and all the music Of nature in the
night. And there was Diana, the same
Diana, waiting for him at the spot
from which she had waved goodbye
long years ago.
Tom, dear
DIANA"
What story they had to tell there
in the moonlight-this man who had
won his spot in the fierce sunlight of
the world and been Shriveled by it,
and this girl who had spent her years
in the little town where nothing ever
happened,
Small wonder that there seemed to
be a wall between them against which
Meredith's dream beat its wings in
vain. When the narrative was over
he pleaded impetuously with all the
suppressed longing pent up by passing
years; and Diana, white and wistful
and troubled. was afraid of such hap
pineSs-afraid because their positions
We're now transposed. He was no
! longer the prosecuted son of the vii
lage drunkard. but a public idol-the
speed prince of America about to be
crowned the king,
And how was she to know the
mysteries of publicity, the inventive
power OF the press agent? How was
she to reconcile the gilded hero of
hundred fictitious tales with the man
for whom her heart had always
yearned? She answered him as she
had answered once before:
1T isn't that | don't love you, Tom
I've followed your career from the
z 10
I've dreamed of the time when Calora
would call you back, so that l could
witness your triumph, and I've also
dreamed Of this moment, of you and
me in the moonlight again. That
the trouble, Tom. I'm afraid you're
dreaming now as we'll as /. It's the
night and memories that are talking
now. Your place is in the sun, and
mine is in the moonlight. and the two
don't shine together. Goodbye, Tom
and Gods luck tomorrow"
He treasured her hand a moment.
dropped it, and turned away, murmur-
ing: Gods luck. Gods luck, What
for?"
Imagine the crowded stands front
ing a great wooden saucer around
which steel dragon-f1ies guided by
hooded humans We're due to sing their
way a hundred and twenty times,
flashing past SO swiftly that only the
trained eye could check the numbers
Dick Wagner, cZar of the speed
ways, was lining them up in rows,
with the pace-setter in front of the
pole; and finally came the pistol shot
that set the torpedo fleet in motion.
Four times they circled the track,
maneuvering into position, while the
pace grew faster and faster. The next
time around, the gaps began to close.
in
moved up toward the leaders They
swung into the turn and came down
the stretch, Is cars in laundering
mass of straining steel. Down went
the red flag, and the race was on.
:: x = *
HANS WANSER'S imported special
was grinding along in it's stub
born Dutch Way-ponderouS, deter
mined. unima aginative. De Pulva, the
fiery Italian, was shooting out reckless
ly in front, burning up his tires. and
paying for il with lightning visits to
the pits. Swanson, the Savage SWede {"
fought his car as usual. furnishing if
on the curves with vicious fiips of the
wheel. during which the rear wheels
hit for the sky and were pulled down
like the heels of a startled horse. Chet
Gibson, cool and calcula ting-reck-
oned as a safety" driver-was set
ting his own pace, without regard to
the others. And, as usual, the pro-
cesSion of comets was being led at
this stage of the race by the French
Beau Brummel, Marcel Leroux, al
ways popular figure with the crowd,
but seldom in the money at the
finish. MarceIs dashing temperament
couldn't stand more than hundred
miles of dueling; neither could his car
They always cracked under the final
pressure.
But it was not for these men that
little town had mortgaged its munich
pal soul. Nor for these men that 75,-
600 people had assembled, among them
a girl who, white-lipped and trem-
bling, comprehended for the first time
the fearful peril of the glory-seekers.
All eyes-including those Of Diana
We're watching a black car with a
white "9''-snob-nosed and ominous,
and guided by the king of them ALL
Wild Tom Meredith.
The crowd was strangely silent, for
the Racing Fool of the speedways had
not yet fulfilled the demand upon him.
Not once had he taken the lead; not
once had he brought the crowd to it's
feet, shouting his name. The Black
Butterfly, sole remaining hope of the
factory, was tagging in the rear, ap-
parently unable to wing its way to the
front. 1t, too, was rejecting the mood
Of its master.
From the very start Of the race
Meredith's subconscious mind had sue
cumbed to shadow. Whether it was