Loved by reprobate comets, mothered by gypsy women, automobile racers have few ties in the world through which they dash, and seldom acknowledge human kin. But, in the famed 500-mile sweepstakes at Indianapolis last week, Ralph de Palma, veteran driver, had a nephew—a dark diminutive youth with a countenance like a mask bitten out of sandstone by the wind. Uncle de Palma was a trifle worried. The boy was reckless; he might do himself harm. All day, as the cars circled, he kept his eye on the little cream-colored machine driven by Nephew Pete...
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