"How did you come by your English Christian name?" Gottfried asked Patricia Hollmann, who was sitting beside him.
"My mother was English.
It was her name too: Pat."
"Ah, Pat—that's another matter.
That's much easier to say." He produced a glass and a bottle. "So—to good comradeship, Pat!
My name's Gottfried."
I stared at him.
While I was still labouring around with the full style of address, he could do such things in broad daylight without a blush.
And she laughed, and actually called him Gottfried.
But that was nothing to Ferninand Grau.
He was com-petely crazy and did not let her out of his sight.
He recited rolling verses and explained she must certainly learn to paint.
He actually sat her on a box and started to draw her.
"Look here, Ferdinand, old vulture," said I taking the drawing pad away from him, "you stick to the dead.
Don't attack living human beings.
You tell us some more about the absolute.
I'm a bit touchy about the girl."
"Will you drink with me afterwards the remains of my pub keeper's aunt?"
"I don't know about all the remains.
But one foot certainly."
"Good.
Then I'll oblige you, boy."
The crackle of the engines drifted round the course like machine-gun fire.
There was a smell of burning grease, petrol and castor oil.
Exciting, wonderful smell; exciting, wonderful tattoo of the motors.
Mechanics on either side in their well-equipped pits were shouting.
Ourselves, we had only very meagre supplies.
A few tools, plugs, some spare wheels with reserve tyres that we had managed to get from a firm of manufacturers, several smaller spare parts—that was all.
Koster was not driving for any firm. We had to pay for everything ourselves.
For that reason we had not very much.
Otto came up, behind him Braumuller already dressed for the race.
"Well, Otto," said he, "if my plugs hold to-day, you're lost.
But they won't hold."'
"Soon see," replied Koster.
Braumuller shook his fist at Karl.
"You look out for my Nutcracker!"
The Nutcracker was a heavy, new machine that Braumuller was driving.
It ranked as the favourite.
"Karl will make you stretch your legs, Oscar!" Lenz called across to him.
Braumuller was about to reply in good army language, but suddenly swallowed when he saw Patricia Hollmann with us; he made telescope eyes, grinned aimlessly in our direction and pushed off.
"The greater the victory," said Lenz contentedly.
The roar of wheels swept along the track.
Koster had to get ready.
Karl was entered in the sports-car class.
"We won't be able to help you much, Otto" said I looking at the tools.
He waved a hand.
"It won't be necessary.
If Karl does break down, a whole workshop won't be any use."
"Well, shouldn't we flag, so you'll know how you lie?"
Koster shook his head.