Get a Load of This

     George laughed and engaged the gears. He drove at quite a reasonable speed. He wanted to know the fullest details about my trip to Washington, and so insistent was he that I suspected he was anxious not to talk about himself until we had settled down from our sudden meeting.

     We got a quiet table at Max's, which was not overcrowded, and ordered a light meal. I asked him what he would drink, but he shook his head. “I've given it up,” he said. “It wanted a lot of doing, but in my game it just doesn't pay.”

     I ordered a bottle of light wine for myself. “You certainly have jumped into fame, George,” I said. “What on earth made you take up racing so seriously?”

     He looked at me in an odd way. “Why shouldn't I? You know how keen I am on speed.”

     “I know, but I didn't think you were as keen as all that. After all, if you do want a burst of speed now and then you have the Bugatti. Frankly, I think you are taking the most damnable risks. You scared the life out of me this afternoon.”

     George nodded. “You're a wise old guy. There is a reason, and a very good reason too.”

     “It must be,” I said. “I've never seen, nor do I hope ever to see again, such mad driving in all my life. Do you honestly mean to tell me that you have been doing this for the last six months?”

     “It is very difficult for me. I've got nothing on these professionals in the way of tricks—and, believe me, there are plenty of tricks in this game. In order to win I just keep going as fast as I can and that's my one ace.”

     I couldn't understand this at all. “Surely it isn't so important to win as all that,” I said, frowning. “I mean, you don't strike me as a person who must win at everything, and it is not as if you can't afford to lose sometimes.”

     The waiter interrupted us just then with our first course, and for a few minutes there was silence. Then George said, “You see, Myra expects me to win.”

     I said, “Oh,” rather blankly, and then: “I'm sorry, George, but I'm rather out of touch. Who is Myra?”

     George said with an effort: “Myra is the girl I'm going to marry.”

     Automatically I murmured my congratulations, but I was extremely puzzled, as he didn't seem at all happy. In fact, my congratulations fell rather flat.

     There was rather a long, strained silence after that, then I said, “Well, tell me all about it.”

     George sat back with a little shrug. “Oh, I don't know,” he said, “I don't want to bother you with details. You see, Myra likes celebrities. At first she wouldn't look at me. Then some of the crowd began to talk about my driving and she took a little interest. I sort of took up the racing to please her, and now we are going to get married.”

     All the time he was talking he avoided looking at me, and I thought it was a most extraordinary story. “But surely, George, she must realize what risks you are taking. I mean, she wouldn't want anything to happen to you.”

     I found that I was floundering, and stopped talking, annoyed at myself. I am old-fashioned enough to believe that marriage should be founded on a quarter of love and three-quarters companionship. It seemed too much like a Hollywood wedding to please me.

     George shook his head. “Why, I guess she's got a lot of confidence in my driving.”

     I said, rather dryly, “I see.”

     “No, you don't,” George said miserably. “You think it is most odd, and so it is. What is more, this racket is getting too much for me. I can't keep it up much longer.”

     As he spoke his face relaxed, and I saw a horror in his eyes that startled me. It is not often that one sees naked fear in a man's face, but I saw it that night and it wasn't a pleasant experience.

     “I don't think there is a man alive who could,” I said. “Why don't you drop it right away? After all, you have enough fame now. You've done quite enough.”

     “No, I can't do that. I can't expect you to understand. I've got to go until I'm married—then perhaps—”

     I said: “Let's go to the bar and have a brandy. It'll do you good.”

     “I daren't touch it,” George said. “If I once start again, I'm sunk.” He ran his fingers through his thick hair. “My God! I had a close shave once. It was when Myra came to see me race for the first time. I wanted to put on a good show, but I felt edgy and nervous. So I hit the bottle. That cured me. I took a bend at over a hundred miles an hour. Everyone thought it was marvellous driving, and Myra got a tremendous kick out of it, but I knew how close I had been to a smash-up. I found I was losing my sense of judgment, so I gave up the booze. I tell you, sometimes I get pretty scared.”

     I began to get seriously worried. It was quite obvious to me that he was making a tremendous effort to seem casual, but every now and then I would get a glimpse of an expression in his eyes that told me he was in a very bad shape. There was no doubt that he was terrified, almost as pathetically as a child awakening from some evil nightmare.

     I asked him when he was getting married.