Mr. Ellis only laughed. “Don’t put
yourself out, dear boy,” he said. “I
have enough for present necessities. If you think
an automobile race is an easy thing to manage, try
it. Every man who drives a racing-car has a coloratura
soprano beaten to death for temperament. Then
every racing-car has quirky spells; there’s
the local committee to propitiate; the track to look
after; and if that isn’t enough, there’s
the promotion itself, the advertising. That’s
my stunt—the advertising.”
“It’s a wonderful business, isn’t
it?” asked Bettina. “To take a mile
or so of dirt track and turn it into a sort of stage,
with drama every minute and sometimes tragedy!”
“Wait a moment,” said Mr. Ellis; “I
want to put that down. I’ll use it somewhere
in the advertising.” He wrote by the light
of a match, while we all sat rather stunned by both
his personality and his alertness. “Everything’s
grist that comes to my mill. I suppose you all
remember when I completed the speedway at Indianapolis
and had the Governor of Indiana lay a gold brick at
the entrance? Great stunt that! But the best
part of that story never reached the public.”
Bettina was leaning forward, all ears and thrills.
“What was that?” she asked.
“I had the gold brick stolen that night—did
it myself and carried the brick away in my pocket—only
gold-plated, you know. Cost eight or nine dollars,
all told, and brought a million dollars in advertising.
But the papers were sore about some passes and wouldn’t
use the story. Too bad we can’t use the
brick here. Still have it kicking about somewhere.”
It was then, I think, that Jasper yawned loudly, apologized,
said good-night and lounged away across the lawn.
Bettina hardly knew he was going. She was bending
forward, her chin in her palms, listening to Mr. Ellis
tell about a driver in a motor race breaking his wrist
cranking a car, and how he—Ellis—had
jumped into the car and driven it to victory.
Even Aggie was enthralled. It seemed as if, in
the last hour, the great world of stress and keen
wits and endeavor and mad speed had sat down on our
door-step.
As Tish said when we were going up to bed, why shouldn’t
Mr. Ellis brag? He had something to brag about.
Although I felt quite sure that Tish had put up the
prize money for Mr. Ellis, I could not be certain.
And Tish’s attitude at that time did not invite
inquiry. She took long rides daily with the Ellis
man in his gray car, and I have reason to believe
that their objective point was always the same—the
race-track.
Mr. Ellis was the busiest man in Morris Valley.
In the daytime he was superintending putting the track
in condition, writing what he called “promotion
stuff,” securing entries and forming the center
of excited groups at the drug store and one or other
of the two public garages. In the evenings he
was generally to be found at Bettina’s feet.
