FOR THE ZAPOPAXI CUP
"Just as I picked the trigger he made the throw. And, dear, dear! the rope caught around a four-inch projection where the top had fitted on, and it was just the same to him as if he'd snared the Fast Mail. He didn't know what to do with us once he'd got us. As a compromise he went sailing over our heads for the hospitable mouth of the crater. I didn't see him land.
"Then for the first time I raised my head and took a long look through the vapor and dust at the old boy.
"He was only half seated. One knee was on the bottom of the car, and his round form was humped in a huddling posture over the wheel. The back of his neck showed blood-red as the sun cut through the clutter and kept tabs on our whizzing.
"I began to realize it must be nerve-destroying to keep the eyes focussed on that terrible spoor, let alone being annoyed by the grandstand, and I also appreciated it was only his steady hand and sure orbs that were intervening between me and the crater on one hand, and the spectators on the other.
"‘Can you hold out?' I cried.
"He bowed his head for answer, until his forehead almost touched the rim of the wheel, and I believed he was slipping away, but when we reached the bowlder he skirted it as neatly as of yore, though every swish threatened to tear the tires loose.
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