IV
THE LADY WHO LOOKED ON
I wonder how many nowadays remember that pretty bit of goods, MaisaHubbard, who used to drive the racing cars in France, and was theparticular fancy of half the motormen who drive on the other side ofthe blue water.
I first met her at the Gordon Bennett of 1901, and I must say I thoughther "sample goods." It's true that many would have it she wasover-well-known in America, and more than one young man got on therocks because of her; but the world rather likes a bit of scandal abouta pretty woman, and there's no shorter road to the masculine favour.
Anyway, Maisa Hubbard was popular enough down at Bordeaux, and youmight still have called her the belle of the ball on June 26 in theyear 1902, when we started from Champigny for the great race across theArlberg Mountains. That was the occasion, you will remember, when twoof our little company did something by way of a record in smashing uptheir cars--but the story of one of these, Max, who drove for a Frenchcompany, has so often been told that I shall certainly not re-tell ithere. The other is a different story, and since it is the story of agood man, a good car, and a pretty woman, there's no reason why LalBritten should not put his pen to it.
Well, I was driving for an English company at that time, the Vezey theycalled themselves, though Wheezy would have been the better name. Sucha box of tricks I do believe was never put upon a chassis before orsince. It took two of us to start the engine in the morning, and thesame number to persuade her to leave off firing at night. The worksmanager, Mr. Nathan, whose Christian name was Abraham, said that she'ddone eighty miles an hour with him easily; but the only time I got herover fifty she broke her differential by way of an argument, andnothing but a soft place in a hayfield saved me from the hospital. Allof which, of course, was good advertisement for the firm--and, truly,if it came to making a noise in the world, why, you could hear theircar a good quarter of a mile away.
This was the flier I took over to France and tried to break in upon thefine roads we all know so well. As I finished the race almost before Ibegan it, the less said about the affair the better--but I shall neverforget that Paris to Vienna meeting, and I shall never forget itbecause of my friend Ferdinand,[1] one of the best and bravest who everturned a wheel, and the right winner of that great prize, but for thewoman who said "No," and said it so queerly and to such effect that amagician out of the story-books couldn't have done it better.
I liked Ferdinand, liked him from the start. A better figure of a manI shall never see; six feet to an inch, square set and wonderfullymuscular. His hair was dark and ridiculously curly, so much so thattalk of the "irons and brown paper" was the standing joke amongst theracing men in Paris, who knew no more of him than that he was anItalian by birth and had spent half his life in America. For the rest,he spoke English as well as I did, and I never knew whether Ferdinandwas his real name, or one he took for the racecourse--nor did I care.
They say that there is no cloud without a silver lining--a poorconsolation in a thunderstorm when your hood is at home and the nearesttree is three miles away. There had been a thunderstorm, I remember,on the morning I met poor Ferdinand, and my batteries had refused tohand out another volt, notwithstanding the plainest kind of speech inwhich I could address them. Just in the middle of it, when the rainwas running in at the neck and out at the ankles, and I was askingmyself why I wasn't a footman in yellow plush breeches, what shouldhappen but that a great red car came loping up on the horizon, likesome mad thing answering to the lightning's call--and no sooner was ita mile distant than it was by me, so to speak, and I was listening tomy friend Ferdinand for the first time.
"Halloa, and what's taken your fancy in these parts?" he asked in acheery voice. I told him as plainly.
"This musical box don't like the thunder," said I; "she's turned sour."
"Are you stopping here for the lady, or do you want to get back toParis?"
"Oh," says I, "I haven't taken a lease of this particular furlong, ifthat's what you mean."
"Then I'll give you a tow," says he, and without another word, he gotdown from his seat and began to make a job of it. We were at Vendreuxhalf an hour afterwards, and there we breakfasted together in theFrench fashion. That meal, I always say, was the luckiest friendFerdinand ever ate.
He told me a lot about himself and a lot about his car; how he had beeneverything in America, from log-roller in the backwoods to cook in theFifth Avenue palaces; how he met Herr Jornek, the designer of theModena car, on a trip to St. John's to explore Grand River, and how hehad come back to Europe to drive it in the big race. His luck, hesaid, had been out in New York because of a woman; to get far away fromthat particular lady was the inducement which carried him to Europe.
Here was something to awaken my curiosity, as you may well imagine, andI asked him all sorts of questions about the girl; but to no goodpurpose. His interest was in the car, one of the first made by thefamous Herr Jornek, and called the Modena after the factory in thattown. He told me it was unlike any car on the market, and that newfeatures of gearbox, ignition, and engine design would certainly stampit a winner if no bad luck overtook him. This persistent talk aboutmisfortune set me wondering, and I fell to questioning him a littlemore closely about his story, and especially that part of it whichconcerned the woman.
"Who is the lady, and how did she interfere with you?" I asked. Hewould say no more than that he had known her by half a dozen names overin America, and that she was formerly a dancer at the old CasinoTheatre in New York.
"She's done everything," he said: "gone up in balloons, ridden horsesastride at Maddison Square Gardens, played the cowboys' show withBuffalo Bill, and sailed an iceboat on the Great Lakes. Whenever she'sout to win I'm out to lose. Make what you like of it, it's Gospeltruth. As certain as I'm up for one of the big prizes of my life, thegirl's there to thwart me. If I were what my schoolmaster used to calla fatalist, I'd say she was the evil prophetess who used to play ducksand drakes with the soldier boys at Athens. But I don't believeanything of the sort--I say it's just sheer bad luck, and that womanstands for the figure of it."
I was troubled to hear him, and put many more questions. How did thegirl thwart him? Was it just an idea, or had he something better to goupon? He did not know what to say; I could see it troubled him verymuch to speak of it.
"She puts it into my head that I shall lose, and lose I do," he said;"it's always been the same, and always will be. When I rode that greatleaping horse, Desmond, and put him over the fences, she was in thearena with a bronco, and she just looked up to me as sweetly as achild, and said, "Ferdy, your horse is going to fall next time," andfall, sure enough, he did, and laid me on my bed for more than a month.After that I rode the bicycle match against the Frenchman, Devereux,and there she was, dressed like a picture amongst the crowd, andsmiling like an angel in the Spanish churches. When I nodded to hershe called me back a moment, and just put in her pretty word.
"Ferdy," she said, "that Frenchman can't ride straight; he's going torun into you, Ferdy." Will you believe it, we cannoned together at thelast corner, and I was thrown so badly that although he walked hismachine in I couldn't beat him."
He was serious enough about it all, and I must say that his talk putsome queer ideas into my head. I've never been a believer over-much inluck myself, holding that we make it or mar it for ourselves, and thatwhat some call misfortune is nothing more or less than misdoing; buthere was a tale to make a man think, and think I did while he ate hisbreakfast and went on to speak of his car almost as lovingly as a manspeaks of the new girl he met for the first time yesterday. Just as wewere leaving the hotel and he was getting back to his doleful manner abit, I put in my word and I could see that he took it well enough.
"All said and done," said I, "there's a little matter of three thousandmiles between you and the lady just at present. Whatever may havehappened over yonder is hardly likely to happen in La Belle France,look at it how you like. You should think no more about it, Ferdinand.Yo
u're to win this great race, and win it you certainly will if I'm ajudge. Why, then, think about a woman at all?"
"Because," he replied, and he was as grave as a judge at the moment,"because I must; I've been thinking of her ever since I picked you up.It's queer, Britten, but I do believe you're going to bring me luck,and that's as true as Gospel."
"And true it shall be," said I, "if good wishes can do it, my boy.Let's go and get the cars. My box of tricks will be melted down if Ileave it in the sun any longer. Let's get back to Paris and have somefun; I'm sure that's what you're wanting."
He did not object; and the storm having passed, and my coil behavingitself properly now that the damp was off the contacts, we jogged alongthe road to Paris in company with many who were returning from theirmorning practice, and just a few amateurs out to see the fun. We hadgone a mile, I suppose, when we met a girl driving one of the De Dionmotor tricycles, and no sooner had I seen her than she went by with aflash and a nod; and I knew her for little Maisa Hubbard, of whom thetown had been talking for three days past. Then I ran my car alongsideFerdinand's just to make a remark about it--but, will you believeme?--he was as pale as a sheet, and his eyes were staring right intovacancy, as though a ghost stood in his path, and he didn't know how toget by it.
"Why," cried I, "and what's up now?"
He brought himself to with an effort, closed his hand about the wheel,and then answered me:
"That's the girl, right enough," he said; "you saw her for yourself."
"Oh, look here, I can't take that. Don't you know Maisa Hubbard, whodrove the big Panhard last autumn?"
"I know Maisa Hubbard who used to dance at the Casino Theatre in NewYork, and she's the same. Didn't I tell you she'd follow me to France?"
"You told me a lot of things," I retorted; "perhaps you dreamed some ofthem."
"Perhaps I did," he answered, and then I was sorry I had spoken, forhis face was as sad as a woman's in sorrow, and just as pitiful.
"You want cheering up, my boy," said I; "wait till we get back toParis, and I'll take you in hand myself. It's over-driving that's doneit; I've known the kind of thing, and can understand what you feel; butyou wait a bit, and then we'll see. Didn't you say I was going tobring you luck?"
"I did, but not while Maisa Hubbard's in France. There's no man borncould do it."
He was down enough about it, I must say, and a more melancholy drivernever steered a car into Champigny--the place where the great race wasto start from, and our destination for the time being. When we haddone the necessary tuning up and had cleaned ourselves, I tookFerdinand back to Paris, and gave him a bit of dinner at a littlerestaurant near the Faubourg St.-Honore.
When we had eaten five shillings' worth for three-and-sixpence, anddrunk a good bottle of sour red wine apiece, I took him round to"Olympia," and there we saw the famous show they called the "Man in theMoon." This didn't cheer him up at all, and once during the evening hetold me that he thought he'd soon be in the moon himself, or any placewhere they have a job for damaged racing drivers. This made me laughat him, but laughing wasn't any good, and I had it in my mind to takehim off to supper at a little place I knew on the Boulevards, when whatshould happen but that Maisa Hubbard appeared suddenly in the promenadewhere we stood, and immediately came up to him with such a smile asmight have brought a saint out of a picture to say "Good evening" toher.
"Why, it's Ferdy!" she cried, "and he's trying to turn his back on me.Oh, my dear boy, whatever do you look like that for?"
He shook hands with her quite civilly, and made some excuse about theshow and his not feeling very funny about it. She had another girlwith her, and her brother, Jerome Hubbard, the "whip" who used to drivewith Mr. Fownes. When I had been introduced, she asked me to come tosupper at a place I'd never heard of, and declared that her brotherwould have a fit if we didn't disburse some of his savings immediately.The little girl who was with her (I shan't write her name down) was alively bit of goods, and I was ready enough to go if only to cheer up"Ferdy," who, to be sure, had become a different man already, and wastalking and laughing with Maisa just as though they had been first"cousins" for a twelvemonth or more. In the end we ate Mr. Jerome'ssupper, and got back to our little beds at two in the morning: not anover-good preparation for a great race, as any driver will admit; butmy friend seemed himself again, and I would have eaten half a dozensuppers to bring that about.
This was two days before the meeting, I should tell you, and I sawlittle of Ferdinand until that memorable June morning, when, athalf-past three precisely, Girardot got away on his C.G.V., and wasfollowed two minutes later by Fournier on his Mors. I have taken partin many a big race since, but never one which excited me more than thatfamous dash from Paris to Vienna, which was to make the fortune of morethan one English house, and to bring the Gordon Bennett Cup to Englandfor the first time in the motor story.
I firmly believed my friend Ferdinand was to win the race, andpresentiment goes farther in this world than many folks think. Such adashing, daring driver I never saw. His car was a wonder. I tookseveral trips with him before the race, and I do believe that we madeeighty or ninety miles an hour upon her--a miracle for those days,though not thought so much of in this year 1909. What was more, heseemed to have forgotten all about that little devil of a Maisa Hubbardand her prophecies, and when we breakfasted together upon the morningof the start I would have said that he was fit to race for his life.
And what a start it was, notwithstanding the hour! What a roaring andracing of engines, cars tearing here and tearing there, gendarmeseverywhere, men with silver on their heads and silver on their toes;jabbering officials telling you to do twenty things at once, andquarrelling because you did them. The enclosure itself was like themeat-market at Smithfield on a busy morning. I never heard so muchnoise in any one place before; and if there was a man, woman, or childwho slept through it in the peaceful village of Champigny, well, he,she, or it ought to go into a museum.
Of course, all this was exciting enough, and I caught something of thefever when twenty soldiers pushed my old rattle-trap into the roadway,and a very fine gentleman gave the signal to "Go." Upon my word, I dobelieve there was just a moment when I thought I could get to Viennabefore the others; and, letting my clutch in gently, and telling Billy,my mechanician, to make himself fast, I soon had her upon third speed,and was racing as fast as the bad road would let me towards Provins.This was a bumpy bit, to be sure, and if I had put her on the "fourth,"some one would have had to sweep up the pieces quickly. But I kept hersteady, though the great cars began to go by like roaring locomotiveson a down incline, and really she was doing very well when the offsidefront tyre asked for a change of air, and we knew that it was No. 1, sofar as punctures were concerned.
Well, this was twenty miles from Provins, upon a long and desolatestretch of a poor road, with a distant view of the hills and a coupleof sleepy peasants out among the hay. We had been lucky with our draw,and started early in the list, and you can imagine my surprise when acar flashed into view and I recognised Ferdinand, who was almost thelast to get off, and must have passed any number of cars to overtake usas he did. My word, and he was driving, too! His great machinefrightened you to watch it, leaping over the bumps as it did, andthreatening every moment to be flung sheer off the road into thehayfield on the other side of the dyke. But there was a master at thewheel, and with a cheery wave of the hand to us Ferdinand went by, andwas lost immediately in a mighty cloud of dust which rose clear abovethe poplars.
I need hardly tell you how glad I was to see him doing so well, and howI laughed at all his foolish ideas about Maisa Hubbard. Win I felt hewould, though all the ladies of the Casino ballet came out to tell himnot to; and when old Dobbin, my own particular turn-out, condescendedto move again, I pushed on for Belfort, no longer deluding myself thatI was to be within a hundred miles of the winner, but hoping that Ishould get to Vienna in time to shake "Ferdy" by the hand and to tellhim what a fool he had been.
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bsp; If I didn't say this at Belfort, where Herr Jornek, the designer of thecar, stood in between us and took Ferdy away for the evening to talk tohim, it was well enough said at Brigenz. There a second halt was made;and although we turned in at an early hour, I had plenty of time to putthe idea of winning into his head, and the idea of Maisa Hubbard out ofit. All the world knows that we had to go through France, Switzerland,Germany, and Austria for that big race, and the Swiss part was slowenough, since no racing was allowed by the timid old gentlemen at thecapital. Indeed, if there is one country in Europe a motorist doeswell to keep out of at any time, it is Switzerland. We simply rolledthrough the place on that particular journey, and at Brigenz my friendFerdinand was high up in the list, none but De Knyff, Jarrott, and theFarmans being ahead of him. I told him that if he got over the ArlbergMountains as his car ought to get, he was winner for a certainty. Andthat was the point we stuck to until it was time to turn into ourlittle beds and dream about to-morrow.
"I hear that the devil himself might be frightened to drive across thatpass at any speed," said I, "and there's your chance, Ferdy. You sayit will be the making of you to win this race. Well, you give yourmind to it, and don't shirk the risks, and you're as good as a winneralready. There isn't a car in the bunch can hold you on the mountains,and you know it."
"You're right," said he, "and I wish I could say the same to you. ButLal, my boy, it isn't exactly a war-horse that you've got under you,and I can't say it is. I'm not frightened of the mountains, and canbreak my neck as well as most; don't think otherwise. If my luckholds, Lal Britten has fixed it up, and I shan't forget him when theshekels are paid out. You may think me a bit dotty, but this I willsay, that I never felt so sure of myself or of the car as I do thisnight, and if confidence and a good engine won't win across theArlberg, then we'll give it up, Lal, and take to perambulators."
"Not meaning any reference to the lady," said I; but his face clouded,and I wished I hadn't spoken.
"She's in Paris, and thank God for it," he exclaimed, rising to go upto bed; "if she were here in Brigenz to-night, I wouldn't give sixpencefor my chances, and that's the whole truth. Now, let's go to by-by; ifwe don't, I'll be dreaming of her, and dreams won't win laurel-wreaths,as even you will admit."
I let him go, and followed some ten minutes later to my own room. Itwas just cussedness, I suppose, which kept me back, for, as I wentacross the corridor of the first floor of our hotel I heard a womanwith a laugh which struck sparks off you; and turning round, there wasMaisa Hubbard herself in a fine Paris gown and a great straw hat, witha pink feather in it large enough to decorate the Shah. She just gavea pleasant nod to me and then went downstairs, while I made for mybedroom, wondering what Ferdy would have said if he had seen her, andwhat real bad luck brought her to Brigenz at such a time.
Of course, she had come on by train. Lots of people did, to follow theracing; and here she was with a merry party, just as simple-looking andas guileless as a shepherdess at the Vic, and looking no older than aschool-girl. When I got up at four next morning I was full ofcuriosity to know if Ferdy had seen her. But he was out at his car inthe "control," cheerful enough as far as he himself was concerned, butmighty anxious about his mechanician, Down, who had broken his armtrying to start up the engine, and had already been taken to thehospital. A minute later I heard that our old wheezer wouldn't startat all, and there it was, as though a special Providence had ordered it.
"You can't move your own char-a-banc--the crank-shaft's broken,"Ferdinand said to me, as he asked me for the tenth time to get upbeside him; "I've got no one, and I'm going to win this race. If youcould conjure up a new crankshaft out of nothing, you would still bethree behind the last in, and all the town out to laugh at you. Getup, Lal, and have done with it. I tell you I knew it from the first."
Well, I stared at this: and having just a word with my mechanicianBilly, and being quite sure that the Vezey, however good she was atgoing back on me, wouldn't go forward that day or for some days tocome, I left instructions for telegrams to be sent to England, and wasup beside Ferdinand without further ado.
I have told you that he stood already high in the list, and so you willunderstand that we hadn't long to wait for the word "Go!" Before thatcould be given, however, and while the car was still in the "control,"who should come up to us but Maisa Hubbard herself; and, will youbelieve it, I felt all my confidence, both in man and car, oozing outof my finger-tips, just like water running out of a tap. How or whythat should have been I am not the man to say; but there was the fact,that this pretty woman could work this magic upon me just by a look outof her sly eyes, and could do worse to my friend Ferdinand, as Iplainly perceived. As for that poor chap, he turned as white as aghost directly he saw her, and I really thought he would never be ableto start the car at all.
"Oh, my dear boy, I have been looking for you everywhere," cried she,offering him a little bunch of red roses, just as though she loved himdearly. "Now, won't you take these for luck? I'm sure you'll wantluck to-day, Ferdy. Do you know, I dreamed about you last night?"
He said "Yes," and laid the flowers on the seat beside him. I couldsee him licking his lips as though his mouth were dry, and presently heasked her a question.
"What did you dream, Maisa?"
She shook her head and began the play-actress style.
"Oh, I guess I wouldn't tell you, anyway."
"But I want to know, Maisa?"
"It was only a dream, of course--aren't they real sometimes, Ferdy?Why, I saw you drive your car over the side of the mountain, just asplainly as ever I saw anything in my life."
He laughed quietly, looking at me with a look I shall never forget.
"You're quite a wonder at dreaming, Maisa. Suppose I disappoint youthis time?"
"Don't be foolish, Ferdy--you shouldn't have asked me to tell you.Why, you're too clever to be such a silly, and you know it. Good-byeand good luck. I shall see you in Vienna."
He just nodded his head and let in his clutch with such a bang that henearly threw me over the dash. I could see that his nerve had gone tothe winds with the woman's words, and if wishes could have repaid her,she'd have got something for her pains, I do assure you. As it was, Icould do nothing but pretend to laugh at it, and that I did to the bestof my ability.
"Dreams go by contraries," said I; "any child knows that."
"She didn't dream it at all," was his answer; "she said it out ofspite."
"Why should she be spiteful----?"
"You ask the man and his master. She's out for another car to win, andwill spoil my chances if she can."
"More fool you, then, to listen to her. Make up your mind to forgetit. You can do it if you try."
"Ah," he said, and upon my word I was sorry for him, "that girl's goingto be my ruin, Lal, as sure as we're on this car."
"You speak like a coward, Ferdy--didn't you say I brought you luck----"
"And you shall--I'll try to believe, Lal--I've thought it from thestart. If it wasn't for her----"
"Oh, be d----d to her," said I; and that I really meant.
We were on the starting line as these words were spoken, and in twominutes we got the word to go, and the great Modena car rushed awaylike some giant bird upon the wing. This was the crucial stage of thatfamous race, when we had to climb the Arlberg Mountains and drop downto Innsbruck. It was the day which saw Edge the proud winner of theGordon Bennett Cup, and the morning upon which Jarrott broke up hisbedroom furniture to stiffen the frame of his 70-h.p. Panhard. Our carwas not in for the Gordon Bennett, and our race did not finish atInnsbruck, but at far Vienna--that is, if we crossed the terribleArlberg Mountains safely, and got down the other side with our headsstill upon our shoulders. This depended upon my friend Ferdinand, thegreatest driver that ever lived upon an ordinary day, but a mad devilthat morning if ever there was one.
Oh! you could see it from the start. That woman's words had enteredinto his very soul, and he did not deny that he believed his
hour hadcome. We were early away, and the two big cars ahead of us we caughtalmost in the first hour. When we came to the mountain we began toclimb as though a magic wind was lifting us. Grand as the scene was,with the mighty mountains towering above us and the valley full ofwonders spreading out below, I had eyes for nothing but the windingroad, nor thoughts of any goal but that of distant Innsbruck, where thedanger would be passed. Sometimes I wished that Ferdinand would changeseats with me and let me drive. No woman that ever was born wouldfrighten me, I thought, and yet I could not be sure even about that.The words that were spoken in the "control" went echoing in my head."We were going over the mountain-side." Good God, if it were true!
The climb up the Arlberg Mountains is a wonderful thing, but I wouldhave you know that it is child's play to the drop down on the otherside. Imagine a series of fearful zigzags with a sheer wall of rock onone side, and on the other a precipice just as sheer, and so open andundefended that some fellows in this race were driven almost mad withterror at the bare sight of it. Luckily for me, I sat upon theleft-hand side of the car and could see very little of what was goingon; but I knew that our off-side front wheel was within two inches ofthe edge more than once as we went up; and when we passed over the topand began the descent I could have sworn that even Ferdinand himselfhad lost all hope of getting down safely.
Once, I remember, he gave a great cry, and shot the car over to theinside with such a twist that our wheels scraped the very rock; therewere moments when he came to a stand altogether, and passed his handover his eyes as though he could not see clearly. By here and there Ithought he drove like a madman, swooping round a fearful corner withour wheels over the very chasm, or dashing down a straight as thoughnothing could save him at the bottom. If I called out at this andimplored him not to be a fool, he answered back that "What was to be,would be"; and then he mentioned Maisa's name, and I knew he had notforgotten.
Well, as many know, the end came at that great dome of rock which looksfor all the world like St. Paul's Cathedral. I confess that I shouldhave been no wiser here than Ferdinand. We seemed to be following agentle curve round the dome, with the rock upon our left hand, and thevalley three thousand feet down upon our right. There was nothing totell us of the danger trap; and, thinking he had a clear road,Ferdinand opened his throttle and we shot ahead like a shell from agun. Less than a second afterwards I had made a wild leap from myseat--and Ferdinand, without a cry or a sound, had gone headlong to thevalley below.
I suppose five good minutes must have passed before I knew anything atall, either of the nature of this awful accident or of the good luckwhich attended my leap. Lying there on my back, I became consciouspresently that I was in a thick scrub of gorse, which lined the roadhereabouts. It had caught me just as a spider's web catches a fly. Iached intolerably, that is true--my whole body seemed numbed, as thoughit had been hit with irons, while my leather clothes were torn to rags.But, by-and-by, it came to me that I could get up if I chose, and whenI looked below me and saw the sheer precipice, and that nothing but abush stood between me and it, you may be sure I scrambled back to theroad quicker than a man counts two. And there I lay, trying toremember what had happened, and what my duty called upon me to do.
Ferdy and the car! Good God, what had happened to them? The sweatpoured off me like rain when the truth came back. Ferdy was overthere, down that awful precipice. Quaking in every limb, I draggedmyself to the edge and looked over. Yes, I could see the car, lookinglike a little toy thing, far down in the valley. It lay wheelsupwards, in what appeared to be a little brook or river; but of mycomrade not a sign anywhere. In vain I shouted his name again andagain. The cars began to pass me, and, warned by my presence, theytook that awful corner safely; but not a man of their drivers guessedthat a good fellow had gone over, and that I was half mad because ofit. Away they went, with a nod and a shout, leaving that cold silenceof the mountains behind them, and Lal Britten crying like a womanbecause they didn't stay. In the end I ceased to think of them at all,and, going to the brink again, I shouted "Ferdinand" until the hillsrang.
* * * * *
He answered me--as I am a living man--Ferdinand answered me at last.At first I could believe so little in the truth of what I heard that Ialmost thought the mountains were mocking me and sending my voice backin echoes. Then I understood that it was not so at all, but that myfriend really called to me from a place thirty or forty yards down theroad, where the scrub was thicker. It was the spot where our tank andtool-box, cast ahead as the car swerved and went over, lay shattered onthe rocks. These I hardly noticed at the moment; but, dashing to theplace, I threw myself flat on my face and hung right over the precipiceto answer my comrade. And then, in an instant I knew what hadhappened--then I understood.
The car, I say, had swerved away to the right as she took theprecipice. The tremendous force of it not only sent all our looseimpedimenta flying down the road, which turned to the left, but itthrew Ferdinand sideways; and, although he had gone over, he fell, asthe newspapers have told you, just where the sheer wall bulged; andhere, holding for dear life to the shrubs, he waited for me to savehim. Such a torture I have never known, or shall know again. Thesight of my friend, not ten feet away from me, the precipice forbiddingme to go down, for it was quite sheer at the top; his white face, hisdesperate hold at the scrappy shrubs--oh, you can't imagine or think ofthe truth of it as I had to upon that awful morning.
"How long can you hold on?" I asked him, clenching my teeth when I hadspoken.
"Perhaps a minute, perhaps two. If you could get a rope, Lal----"
"I'll stop a car," said I--a madder thing was never said, but I had tosay something--"I'll stop a car and make them help me. Perhaps myshirt will do it, Ferdy."
"Good-bye if it doesn't," he said quite quietly; and I knew then thathe was prepared for death, and had expected it; but I was already busywith my shirt, tearing it up with twitching fingers, when he spokeagain.
"Pity we haven't got the rope I towed you with the other day," he saidsuddenly; and at that I started up as though he had hit me.
"The rope--where did you carry it?"
"It was in the tool-box," he answered, still quite calm.
I think I shouted out at that--I know I was crying like a woman aminute afterwards. The tool-box! Why, it lay there, against the rock,before my very nose, the d----d fool! And the very rope which hadfirst brought our friendship about: was it accident or destiny whichput it into my hands, and did Ferdinand do right or wrong to say Ibrought him luck?
I shan't answer these questions--for he was sitting beside me less thantwo minutes afterwards, and we were hugging each other like brothers.
* * * * *
Maisa Hubbard's friend didn't get first to Vienna, and pleased enough Iwas. Whether Ferdy just imagined that she had an evil influence overhim, or whether it is true that some women are the mistresses of men'sdestiny, I don't pretend to say. The story is there to speak foritself.
And Maisa, I may add, is in the halfpenny papers. Do you remember thatfamous case of Lord--but perhaps it isn't my place to speak about that?
[1] The names of the driver, Ferdinand, and the car, the Modena, havebeen substituted by the Editor for those in Mr. Britten's ownnarrative. The reasons for this will be obvious to the reader.
The Man Who Drove the Car Page 4
