As he had returned he had picked up a little. He was now clinging to the black wheel of Number Three.
Thus they raced off up the unending straight. "Damn!" Lenz took a pull from the bottle. "He has practised that," said I to Patricia Hollmann. "Going ahead in the curve is his specialty." "Have a swig out of the bottle too, Pat?" asked Lenz.
I looked at him indignantly.
He stared me out. "I'd prefer a glass," said she. "I haven't learned to drink from a bottle yet." "There you see it." Lenz fished for a glass. "That's the weakness of modern education."
In the following lap, the field drew farther apart.
Braumuller was leading.
The first four had now three hundred metres, start.
Koster disappeared behind the stands running Number Three radiator to radiator.
Then the cars roared up once again.
We jumped up.
Where was Number Three?
Otto came sweeping along alone behind the other two.
There—at last Number Three came bumbling up: burst rear tyres.
Lenz grinned malicious joy—the car pulled up in front of the next pit.
The gigantic mechanic cursed.
A minute later the machine was afloat again.
The next laps changed nothing in the order.
Lenz laid the stop watch aside and calculated.
"Karl still has reserves," he announced then. "So have the others, I'm afraid," said I. "Misbeliever!" He gave me a crushing glance.
Again in the second last lap Koster shook his head.
He was going to risk not changing tyres.
It was not yet so warm that they could not hold out.
Like a glass-clear beast the tension settled down over the flat and the stands, as the cars entered on the final struggle, "Touch wood, everyone," said I, grasping the hammer handle.
Lenz seized my head.
I shoved him off. "Ach, so; pardon, it's straw of course," he explained and gripped the barrier.
The rumble swelled to a roar, the roar to a howl, the howl to thunder, to a high-pitched singing as the racing cars touched the limit of revs.
Braumuller flew high up the banking; close behind raced the second.
With a whirl of dust and grinding back wheels it cut in deeper, further in; he apparently meant to pass below in the curve.
"Fault!" cried Lenz.
Already Koster shot in after them; whirring, the car mounted to the extreme edge of the banking; for one instant we froze—it looked as if he would fly over—then the engine roared and the car sprang round.
"He's gone in on full gas!" I shouted.
Lenz nodded.
"Crazy."
We hung far out over the barrier, in a fever of excitement to know if it had succeeded.
I lifted Patricia Hollmann onto the tool box.
"You'll see better there.
Lean on my shoulder.
He'll get him in the curve, you see."
"He's got him!" she called. "He's past already."
"He's going after Braumuller.
Himmelherrgott, heiliger Moses!" cried Lenz again. "He's actually past and going for Braumuller."
In a whirl of thunderstorms the three cars swept out, up; we yelled like madmen, Valentin too; and Grau's tremendous bass now joined us—Koster's folly had succeeded, from above in the turn he passed Number Two, who had wasted himself and lost speed on the sharper, inside curve; and like a hawk he was now stooping for Braumuller, who suddenly was only twenty metres ahead of him and apparently misfiring.
"Go for him, Otto!
Go for him!
Eat the Nutcracker!" we shouted and waved.
The cars disappeared into the last turn.
Lenz prayed aloud for help to all the gods of Asia and South America, and waved his amulet.
Patricia Hollmann supported herself on my shoulder, her face peering into the distance ahead like the figurehead of a galleon.
They were coming again.
Braumuller's engine was still sputtering; it was missing every other moment.