“Hullo, Teddy!” cried Santoni in his mighty voice. “What you been doing to your face?” “Greasin’ up,” Teddy answered shortly, and cast a malevolent glance at the bill. “Listen here, San. What’s all this talk about a skirt comin’ on? We don’t run any musical leg-show here, you know. If you let a dame on to this track, it’s going to put the speeds on the blink, and then you’ll need a complete Ziegfeld chorus to hold the crowd. I’ve got a fine motion-picture of myself bein’ paced by something in bag-tights and a picture-hat.” Santoni frowned warningly, jerked his head toward the half-open door of his sanctum, and passed a large, embarrassed hand over his heavy showman’s jowl. “I do’ know, Ted,” he growled. “Maybe she ain’t any funeral, either, if you can believe her. But if you fancy your chance, you can argue the point with her yourself, for she’s right here. Miss Simmons!” From Santoni’s sanctum came the sound of a chair abruptly pushed back, and the click of high heels on the floor. The proprietor turned away under the pretense of affixing the poster to the wall; then the door opened wide and revealed “America’s Queen of the Track.” For a moment she inspected Teddy Rocco with the interest of a professional rival. He did not look at all like a daredevil just then, but merely a rather astonished little man with a square mechanic’s jaw and a compact, wiry figure, his sleeves rolled up and his arms and face besmeared. There was some reason for his astonishment, too, for in America’s “Queen,” instead of the superannuated, hard-featured circus-performer he had expected, he saw a rather shy, spruce little girl, with bright, black eyes and an absurdly small nose. Her dark hair hung in two thick, glossy ropes over her shoulders, and her skirt was short enough to reveal several inches of well-modeled ankle. “What is it, Mr. Santoni?” she asked in a small, husky voice. “It’s only Ted Rocco,” explained the proprietor. “He don’t think you’ll be fast enough for this track.” The girl stared at Teddy as though he had questioned her respectability. “How do you _know_ I won’t?” she demanded. They were particularly bright eyes. The daredevil shifted uncomfortably, and his own eyes wandered over the room as though in search of succor. “It isn’t that, exactly,” he stammered; “but, you see, miss, we let ’em rip here. My makers pay for speed, and I got to show speed or I don’t collect.” “You aren’t so much,” retorted the “Queen.” “I bet you don’t average ninety, and I touched ninety myself at Coney last week.” The daredevil’s eyes ceased to wander, meeting hers in a stare of blank incredulity. “You did ninety? You!” he said. “For the love of Mike!” “Why shouldn’t I? My makers pay for speed, too. And when they send me along something with more power to it, I guess I’ll lap you every mile. I think you’re mean to knock me just because I’m not a man.” “You see?” said Santoni, shrugging his shoulders.