"Would you?" queried Lestrange provokingly, clasping the goggles before his eyes. "Well, I've spent the last two hours on the Coney Island beach, about three squares from here, watching the kiddies play in the sand. I didn't feel like driving just then. It was mighty soothing, too." Rupert stared at him, a dry unwilling smile slowly crinkling his dark face. "Maybe, Darling," he drawled, and turned to make his own preparations. Fascinated and useless, Dick looked on at the methodical flurry of the next few moments; until Lestrange was in his seat and Rupert swung in beside him. Then a gesture summoned him to the side of the machine. "I'll run in again before we race, of course," said Lestrange to him, above the deafening noise of the motor. "Be around here; I want to see you." Rupert leaned out, all good-humor once more as he pointed to the machine. "Got a healthy talk, what?" he exulted. The car darted forward. A long round of applause welcomed Lestrange's swooping advent on the track. Handkerchiefs and scarfs were waved; his name passed from mouth to mouth. "Popular, ain't he?" chuckled a mechanic next to Dick. "They don't forget that Georgia trick, no, sir." It was not many times that the cars could circle the track. Quarter of six blew from whistles and klaxons, signal flags sent the cars to their camps for the last time before the race. "Come here," Lestrange beckoned to Dick, as he brought his machine shuddering to a standstill before the tent. "Here, close--we've got a moment while they fill tanks." He unhooked his goggles and leaned over as Dick came beside the wheel, the face so revealed bright and quiet in the sunset glow of color. "One never knows what may happen," he said. "I'd rather tell you now than chance your feeling afterward that I didn't treat you quite squarely in keeping still. I hope you won't take it as my father did; we've been good chums, you and I. I'm your cousin, David Ffrench." The moment furnished no words. Dick leaned against the car, absolutely limp. "Of course, I'm not going back to Ffrenchwood. After this race I shall go to the Duplex Company; I used to be with them and they've wanted me back. Your company can get along without me, now all is running well--indeed, Mr. Ffrench has dismissed me." His firm lip bent a little more firmly. "The work I was doing is in your hands and Bailey's; see it through. Unless you too want to break off with me, we'll have more time to talk over this." "Break off!" Dick straightened his chubby figure. "Break off with you, Les--" "Go on. My name is Lestrange now and always." A shriek from the official klaxon summoned the racers, Rupert swung back to his seat. Dick reached up his hand to the other in the first really dignified moment of his life. "I'm glad you're my kin, Lestrange," he said. "I've liked you anyhow, but I'm glad, just the same. And I don't care what rot they say of you. Take care of yourself."