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.
Woody bought a program and found a map of the track on it.
"Boy," he said, "take a gander at that."
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.
"What's that for?" Mary Jane asked.
"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."
"Why?" asked Mary Jane.
"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."
"I thought everybody just went as hard as they could go," said Mary Jane.
"They do. But they've got to do it with judgment. Wild stuff is strictly out."
The loud-speaker started to blat again:
"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."
"What do you think of your chances in the Black Tiger?" the announcer asked.
"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."
"Any particular driver you're worried about?"
"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."
"That's me," said Woody in astonishment.
"That's right," said Steve. "Get moving."
"Where's gate three?" Woody asked.
"You, Woody Hartford?" a flagman who was standing on the track within earshot asked.
"That's right."
"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.
"That's us," said Randy. "Coming?"
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.
"Why did he cramp his front wheels around?" Woody asked.
"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.
"They'll be here in a minute," said Worm. "Count the cars ahead of the Tiger."
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.
"Sixth," announced Worm. "Nae! Wait a minute! Watch this!"
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.
"He's going too fast for that corner," said Worm. "He'll roll her over."
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."
"Then he changed down twice in two seconds," said another.
"Brother, he'll strip a few gears if he keeps that up," said a third.
"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."
"Here they come again," cried Worm.
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.
"What's the matter?" Woody asked, turning to Worm.
"Accident," Worm shouted. "Somebody's hurt.”