rom their
morning practice, and just a few amateurs out to see the fun. We had
gone a mile, I suppose, when we met a girl driving one of the De Dion
motor tricycles, and no sooner had I seen her than she went by with a
flash and a nod; and I knew her for little Maisa Hubbard, of whom the
town had been talking for three days past. Then I ran my car alongside
Ferdinand's just to make a remark about it--but, will you believe
me?--he was as pale as a sheet, and his eyes were staring right into
vacancy, as though a ghost stood in his path, and he didn't know how to
get by it.

"Why," cried I, "and what's up now?"

He brought himself to with an effort, closed his hand about the wheel,
and then answered me:

"That's the girl, right enough," he said; "you saw her for yourself."

"Oh, look here, I can't take that. Don't you know Maisa Hubbard, who
drove the big Panhard last autumn?"

"I know Maisa Hubbard who used to dance at the Casino Theatre in New
York, and she's the same. Didn't I tell you she'd follow me to France?"

"You told me a lot of things," I retorted; "perhaps you dreamed some of
them."

"Perhaps I did," he answered, and then I was sorry I had spoken, for
his face was as sad as a woman's in sorrow, and just as pitiful.

"You want cheering up, my boy," said I; "wait till we get back to
Paris, and I'll take you in hand myself. It's over-driving that's done
it; I've known the kind of thing, and can understand what you feel; but
you wait a bit, and then we'll see. Didn't you say I was going to
bring you luck?"

"I did, but not while Maisa Hubbard's in France. There's no man born
could do it."

He was down enough about it, I must say, and a more melancholy driver
never steered a car into Champigny--the place where the great race was
to start from, and our destination for the time being. When we had
done the necessary tuning up and had cleaned ourselves, I took
Ferdinand back to Paris, and gave him a bit of dinner at a little
restaurant near the Faubourg St.-Honore.

When we had eaten five shillings' worth for three-and-sixpence, and
drunk a good bottle of sour red wine apiece, I took him round to
"Olympia," and there we saw the famous show they called the "Man in the
Moon." This didn't cheer him up at all, and once during the evening he
told me that he thought he'd soon be in the moon himself, or any place
where they have a job for damaged racing drivers. This made me laugh
at him, but laughing