TIBERIUS SMITH
leading down to the track welcomed our questioning gaze, and Tib gave her the limit, so we hit the raceway like a bullet. Next, it was turn almost a square corner and clutch the wall of the circle.
"My hands formed three links in the ropes over the luggage, but my feet were free and towered above my patron, as I neatly balanced on my neck, giving the foiled foe the impression I was standing on my head.
"In fact, the manner of our going dazed the enemy to such an extent that we whirled by their new position twice before they bethought themselves to resume the spear-hurling pastime. With the same kind of an encore at the mouth of the exit, life was fast assuming a dubious tinge.
"‘Shot-gun!' exploded Tib, hardly audible above the fearful rush of the dust-laden wind and the panting of the car.
"‘Shot too fine. No good,' I cried, almost whimpering.
"He straightened with all his old-time grace and threw back his shoulders, and I knew by the tilt of his dust-covered brown face that he was pleased with some inspiration; then above the yelling of the natives, now intent on the dual bombardment, I caught the one word, 'Olives!'
"‘He's daffy, dear old chap!' I sobbed.
"‘Olives!' he repeated, loud and clear.
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