Everything now became swiftly quiet. There was no more roaring from the pack of cars, whose drivers were tensely watching the starter. He, a rubber ball of a man, dressed in white pants with a multicolored shirt of violent pattern, was standing to one side with his back to the drivers. He had a flag in his hand and was casually scratching beneath his chin with the end of the stick. Suddenly he leaped into the air, his two hands above his head, and brought the flag down like a comic ballet dancer. With a roar, almost of rage, the pack of cars leaped forward. Woody saw five of them flash by so fast that he couldn't even get a glimpse of the numbers, and then the Black Tiger sprang by screaming down to the right-angle bend a quarter of a mile away. "Och, he's a bonny driver," said Worm, his face glistening with excitement. "Did ye see that, mon? They had him positioned eleventh, and he lopped off three cars right at the start." Woody was hardly listening. He was watching the Tiger, which flung after the cars ahead like a hound after deer. The first eight were in a bunch when they reached the corner. There were a series of roars as they changed down to negotiate the turn, and then they were gone, screaming up to the hairpin that lay ahead. "Yon Butcher Bend is a bad one," said Worm. "I'm hoping he'll use mair care than courage in getting roond it." Neither could see anything of the race now, though they could hear the roaring of the engines and the squeal of tires as the pack slid around the first hairpin. "They'll be here in a minute," said Worm. "Count the cars ahead of the Tiger." It seemed less than a minute before the first of the cars appeared. It was Tom Wisdom, driving his big red Ferrari, with the figure 4 making a white splash on its side. After him, hardly a quarter length behind, came Kurt Kreuger in a blue Jag. Then a Thunderbird, number eleven, an Allard, another Jag, and then the Black Tiger. "Sixth," announced Worm. "Nae! Wait a minute! Watch this!" The Jag ahead of Randy zipped by them with the Tiger on her tail. Then the driver changed down to get ready for the right-angle bend ahead. In that second, Randy slapped his foot down hard on the accelerator. There was a cry of "Oooo" from the spectators, and the Tiger flashed past the Jag. "He's going too fast for that corner," said Worm. "He'll roll her over." Everybody strained forward to see what would happen. The Tiger snarled and swerved wide almost to the edge of the track. Then with a deep-throated roar, she clawed around the corner, her rear wheels skidding, and was off down the straightaway like a bolt. "Did you see that?" someone next to Woody called excitedly. "He took the Jag and didn't change down until he was on the fifty-yard mark." "Then he changed down twice in two seconds," said another. "Brother, he'll strip a few gears if he keeps that up," said a third.