Page:Weird Tales Volume 5 Number 1 (1925-01).djvu/107

A Wild Ride, with Death at the Wheel

My twenty-first birthday. Today I have reached my majority. On this date, in accordance with my late father's will, I, Charles Claiborne, became the absolute master of six millions of money. As much more in cash, a great town house, and the magnificent estate of All-View, remained my mother's, to be mine at her death. And this, too, in accordance with my late father's will. But none of these things meant half as much to me on this wonderful September morning, as the new twelve thousand dollar racing car that had been presented to me the night before by my doting mother.

Think of it! A real Gordon-Rennet, the fastest model in the world, the only car of its kind in America—and mine.

This was Life.

Father had been very liberal, of course. Most fathers are. But with all my allowance he had never permitted me to own a speed car. No imagination, you see. Couldn't understand why a young fellow should want to tear along the highways at ninety miles an hour. No pep to Dad. Too busy making money, I guess.

But mother, now, she was different. She could understand. Anyway, she knew I had had my eyes on this racer for a long time, and for that reason had decided to anticipate my purchase by presenting it to me for my birthday.

And now I was out on the highway, creeping along at a mere warming up of sixty miles an hour. This part of the road was a bit rough yet, and as I slackened the pace I found time to swear at another racy-looking car ahead of me, as it swerved from side to side in the effort of its driver to avoid the outcropping boulders. A bit farther on, the new highway began, however; and with a sustained shriek from my electric horn. I stepped upon the accelerator, opened my exhaust, and tore past the other car with a grin of derision.

Seventy. . . Seventy-five. . . Eighty miles I made, and still I pressed upon the feed for more. A kick with my left heel, and the muffler closed, and the ensuing silence seemed to startle the perfect mechanism into a more velvety swiftness. Not a quiver, not a sway, to the wonderful machine, and the blood coursed through my veins with an exhilaration not to be described.

Think of it! Outside of the professional tracks, there was not a car in America that could touch me. On the highway I was king.

Luxuriating in the perfection of this matchless creation of the greatest automobile builders in the world, I softened the pressure on the pedal, thrilling with the consciousness of personal ownership, as the great machine noiselessly reduced its momentum.

"Some boat!" I exclaimed in sheer joy, as I shifted my back to a more upright position. And then I was almost shocked out of this posture by the appalling thunder of an open exhaust immediately behind me. Furiously I pressed upon the gas feed. I didn't turn to look. I felt in my