He tried to summon a careless
nonchalance. He'd shown em
all right! But there was pity
instead of admiration in the
glances of the other drivers.
“HI THERE, MURPHY!” Jerry Murphy
turned his big gaunt person about, grin-
ned shakily, and flung up a thin hand in
greeting. “How are ya, Andy?” he cried.
“That’s Andy—Andy Cooper,” he ex-
plained to the sweet-faced girl in the
roadster beside him. “Gee, it’s great to
be back again, Marion,” as she slowed to
a stop. But in spite of his words Jerry's
deep, gentle voice lacked its old-time fer-
vor, and his thin legs, not yet steady
after two long years spent in an Oakland
hospital, shook as he climbed stifiy out
of the car.
Ever since the day, long since past,
when Jerry Murphy had been a ragged
little fellow selling programs in the
speedway grandstand for the price of
admission, he had worshipped at the -
shrine of that thrilling devil-ged, Speed.
And Jerry had come very near to giving
up his own life on the speed god’s altar
only two years before. More than this;
he had seen many of his pals—good pals
—sacrificed under piles of red hot junk
that moments before had been sleek and
beautiful racing cars.
During those long months of agony in
that hospital bed, he had determined
never. to look upon another speedway
again. He'd had a crazy notion that it
would be fun te buy a small garage out
in the country somewhere and come home
at night to a homey little bungalow, and
Marion. Marion was sold on the idea,
too.
“Oh, let’s do it, Jerry,” she had beg-
ged, “and not race any more! You
promised not to!”
Jerry Wad sighed. “Garages do cost
money, honey.” He hadn’t expected his
hospital expenses and doctor bills to take
quite all of his savings. He’d looked for
some other kind of work too, but there
was none to be had. He’d have to stage
TOWN WEEKLY MAGAZINE SECTION
2 come-back. There was no other way.
“We'll find some other way,” Marion
had cried. “I'll open a beauty parlor. I'll
do anything, Jerry—"’ :
A ROUSING CHEER from the pits
across the smooth oiled track reached
Jerry.
“Hi, Murphy! C’mon over, kid
Jerry’s heart leapt to that greeting in
spite of his dread. “Go up and sit with
Bill Lind’s wife, will you, honey?” he
whispered excitedly to Marion,
“Yes, but Jerry—"
“I won’t race. That is, not today.”
Old Dad Howitzer wrung Jerry's
hands; his faded old eyes blurred with
tears, and the fellows descended riot-
ously upon him. Jerry Murphy, deeply
touched, warmed to their welcome and
told himself that it was good to be back.
All he needed was to get hardened to the
racket again and to show the backers
that he still had what it takes.
Over in the grandstand someone yelled
as a red car shot past.
“That’s Ernie Tiernan,” someone in-
formed him.. “He’s got your old pit,
Jerry, and he’s a comer.”
192
_@OPYRIGHT 1938, EACH WEEK, INC., 82 ST. PAUL ST., ROCHESTER, N.V.
“Doggone it!” Wild Bill Lind ejacu-
lated. “He’s goin’ ¢’ beat my time. I
did it in thirty-four minutes, forty-five
seconds—""
“You—what?” gasped Jerry.
Bill laughed indulgently, *“That’s
right. Cars have speeded up since your
day, my boy. Watch Babe Miller take
that curve. Babe’s doing a hundred right
now. He’s racing Tiernan.”
“Gee! And he was just beginning
when—" Jerry gulped—*“when 1 crack-
ed"
There was a sudden dusty blur, a rip-
ping, tearing sound, an agonized ery
flung into the air. The white racing car
had shot high into the blue and, like a
juggler’s tiny toy, had turned a complete
cartwheel and flashed out of sight.
They were off on the run, the thirty
or more of them, across the now deserted
track. No one noticed that Jerry Mur-
phy alone did not move. He leaned,
shivering, against the pit railing, fighting
against a terrible, overwhelming nausea.
THE FELLOWS were straggling back,
muttering sympathy and shaking their
heads mournfully over Babe.
, to him.
Two years in the hospital
after a bad crack-up didn't
help Jerry when he tried to
go back to driving in the
races. The cars had been made
faster, new records had been
set, and the drivers said
that Jerry was all washed up
—but in a tight spot Jerry
earned a different kind of
reward that was well worth
all the records ever made
Illustrated
rb
SKRENDA
“He had a darn good chance for to-
morrow’s big money, too,” Wilbur Steele
was saying, his voice hoarse with feel-
ing.
Jerry Murphy wet his dry, parched
lips. “Say, was he badly—"
“Yep. Babe’s done for, I'm afraid.”
Bill Lind lit a cigaret with big hands that
shook. “His skull is crushed, they say.”
Done for! An icy finger trickled along
Jerry’s spine. Pocr Babe! He'd prob-
ably put his savings of years into that
beautiful new white car, too.
“Say, Babe’s got a family,” Fred Ra-
mor came plodding up. “He’s the entire
support of seven kid sisters and brothers.
Old Howitzer told me.”
“That’s tough. We oughtta take up a
purse,” someone suggested.
And then they forgot poor Babe and
his sad little family, as Wild Bill Lind
climbed into his shining new blue demon
for another try-out.
“Gosh,” Jerry said to himself, “that
boy can drive!” He and Bill had been
old-time rivals. And in spite of his apathy
over Babe Miller, something of the old
thrill of the game shot through him.
Gee, wouldn’t it be swell—maybe if he’d
get in a car—
“That’s a bad turn,” a young driver
interrupted his thoughts. “They oughtta
fix it, but they say they can’t. Not enough
money. Eight cars ’ve gone over that
bank though. It gives me the jitters.
And now Babe—"
“They can hardly pay the drivers, y’
know,” reminded a pitman.
“So we have to be killed,” whined the
youngster.
“Tiernan and Babe both beat Bill's
time,” someone remarked. “But it looks
as if Bill’s goin’ t’ beat Tiernan’s time
and get first position for the big race to-
morrow.”
“That’s what he’s trying to do,” Jerry
agreed, trembling with excitement. And
curiously enough, he found himself envy-
ing Bill. Bill would be the big shot to-
morrow. He’d been the big shot—once.
He’d like a chance to show Bill Lind and
that yelling mob out there what he could
do! New speed records! Faster cars...
Boloney!
BILL GRINNED through his black mask
of grime and road oil as Jerry went up
“Like to take ’er round a few
times, Jerry?” he asked.
All the blood seemed to drain from
Jerry’s heart. “Sure.” He managed a
wan grin. “You bet!”
But his fingers were chill as he gripped
the wheel of the Bluebird, and the roar
of the motor seemed scarcely louder than
the roar in Jerry Murphy’s own heart. He
was off! Aw, what the heck! He’d show
‘em! He flung a cocky arm aloft as he
passed Bill's pit.
He tried to summon a ecareless non-
chalance of manner as he slowed down at
last outside the pit. He guessed he'd