A Sports Car Adventure

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22402, 24 April 1936, Page 9 (Supplement)

A Sports Car Adventure

By A. RlLEY—Chapter I.

Although still at secondary school, Bill Carlaw was a keen motorist. The arrival from England of his cousin, Reg, with an expensive sports model, indicated pleasure in store for him, but he had no inkling of the surprise that was to come as welL His experiences are the subject of the following chapter, and will be further dealt with in a concluding instalment next week.

the fourth tima the boy sighed, forlornly, as though all the cares of the world rested on his youthful shoulders; and for the fifth time ho wished that his age was 16, instead of a mere 14i, because then, perhaps, people would not persist in treating him as an incompetent child, instead of as a healthy schoolboy anxious to translate the carefully-acquired theory of his pet subject into thrilling practice. Ho scowled, but in spite of himself the scowl gave place to a glance of admiration at the cause of his present frame of mind. Sleek and as obviously thoroughbred as the most famous racehorse that ever carried a proud owner's colours to victory; graceful as a gliding yacht; swifter than the wind; silent as a shadow —a car in a thousand, designed by a genius of engineering and fashioned by mastercraftsmen, the Bertleigh was the pride of a keen motorist's heart. Yet to the boy who stood uncertainly surveying the car's shining beauty, the glittering sports model was at once a source of delight and disappointment. Known to his school-mates, and even to his people on rare occasions, as "Carburetter Bill," because of his unquenchable thirst for information concerning motor-cars of all ages, shapes and sizes, Bill Carlaw had looked forward for months to the promised visit of his wealthy cousin from England. He had known that his cousin Reg was bringing a car out to tour New Zealand, and ever since the arrival of the first letter announcing the forthcoming visit, the boy had spent hours poring over the heaps of journals and catalogues he had accumulated, wondering, it must be admitted, not so much about his cousin, as about the car. What make would it be? What model? How fast? And, above all, would he be allowed to drive it? To his innumerable questions, the family turned a deaf ear; that is, to all his questions but one. There was complete agreement on one point—he would not be allowed to drive the car. "What, a kid like you?" was his elder sister's crushing reply. Bill brooded darkly over his prospects, and sometimes tried to cheer himself up with the thought that his cousin might differ from the rest of the family in this respect. Within an hour of his arrival, however, and even before the great black car had been lifted from the ship, Bill's hopes were dashed. His father, introducing him, had laughingly referred to his ruling interest, and had extracted a promise from Reg not to "let this young chap pla£ with such an expensive toy." V Hopes cherished for months disappeared in a moment, but youthful spirits quickly reasserted themselves when the car was finally ready for the road, and the 150-mile journey to the Carlaw farm was about to commence. With the air of a visiting dignitary, Bill took his place beside Reg, and snuggled his shoulders comfortably against the firm leather. With eager eyes, he watched his cousin start the motor, slip in low gear, and steer carefully through the lines of cumbersome trucks on the wharf, past the tall iron gates and through the traffic that led to the smooth concrete highway. 1 Once clear of the traffic, Reg gave his passengers a taste of what the car could do. For a glorious half-mile Reg kept the speedometer needle hovering near the 60 mark—more than enough for Bill's father and mother, who were in the back seat, but only a tantalising taste of real speed to the boy in front, who knew that 60 did not represent even the cruising-speed of the big car. The homeward journey, ending late in the afternoon, had been a great event to Bill. He had travelled, both far and fast, in a car whose radiator

bore the same proud symbol that adorned the famous machine which, in 24 hours' furious racing, "had defeated the cream of the world's sports cars, at Le Mans, in France. He had ridden in the car, certainly, but how he longed to drive itl Walking slowly round and round the big machine, which was parked in a sheltered position near the house, Bill was torn between a desire to try hia skill, and a wholesome respect for his father's instructions. He decided eventually on a compromise. Surely, he argued, there could be nothing wrong with merely sitting behind the wheel, and even if he went just IQO yards down the drive —well, he had driven once or .twice before, and knew what the controls wero for, most of them, at any rate. To slip behind the thin-rimmed wheel was the work of a moment. For a few minutes, Bill amused himself with an imaginary drive. Efe flicked the gear lever to and fro, braked, accelerated and swerved as his imaginary road (a cross between Ninety-Mile Beach and Brooklands), opened before him. Then, with a quick glance to see that nobody was near, he turned the switch and pressed the starter. With a barely audible hum, the motor started, and the boy, all threats forgotten, moved the gear-lever into low, released thp clutch, and accelerated away. The quarter-mile drive from the homestead to the gates »was all too short; barely long enough to get into top gear. Wisdom overcame a growing tendency to go further, however, and Bill swung the long bonnet in to the left, and then, in a sweeping curve, turned the car back toward the house. Once round, he stopped, purely for the pleasure of re-starting and running smoothly through the gears again, feeling the mighty urge of the silent motor that seemed anxious to show what it could do, and wishing that some of his schoolmates were there to see him driving such a magnificent sports model. What an array of switches, dials and controls! With a tentative finger, Bill pushed over a switch, and in a flash the half-light of early evening changed back into day as the two enormous lamps threw a white beam far ahead. Another switch, and the double screenwipers began to hum busily across the sloping windscreen; the next button brought the amber fog-lamp into play. The last of the four controls set in a neat panel had the boy puzzled, but he resolved to try it. With confidence born of ignorance and a desire to experiment, he pressed the little black switch. Nothing happened, and Bill was disappointed. He was reaching out to restore it to its former position when a slight noise caused him to start. An instant later he jumped involuntarily, as a harsh voice, that came from nowhere, spoke with alarming suddenness. ' Stay where you are, Bill," it barked. "We've got you covered." The boy sat petrified. Visions of gangsters and stubby automatic pistols rose before him. (To be continued)