At 10 a.m. Campbell judged the moment just right. He ran to the boat shouting, "Let's go! Let's go!" And off he went down the course, with the roar of his jet engine echoing off the Nevada hills, the big Bluebird up and skimming on her tiny planing surfaces.
At the end of the first run Campbell barked crisply into his radiophone: "About 235!" His guess was 4.5 mph short of his actual speed. On the required return run the wind began to blow, and Bluebird smashed into a long swell.
"I bounced around like a cockle-shell," he said. "If one had not been wearing a harness one would have been thrown through the canopy."
The return was clocked at 193.1 mph. Average time for both runs: 216.2 mph, another new world record. Shutting off the power, Campbell paddled his two-ton jet boat ashore.
"That's enough for the time being," he said. "We've learned everything we wanted to know. We knew the boat would go a lot faster. There'll be no more immediate runs."
Then Campbell was hoisted onto the shoulders of admirers and carried off in the direction of a victory party at the Sahara, where he was presented with a cake 3 feet tall and a life membership in the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce. Bluebird, in her turn, was hoisted onto a truck and carted into the lobby. A sign over the Sahara now reads: HOME OF DONALD CAMPBELL AND THE BLUEBIRD.
THE BUTCHER'S HORSE
In France, it must be understood, the horsemeat is highly regarded. It is cheaper than the best cuts of beef, and, moreover, many Frenchmen consider it to be superior in taste and texture. Thus, it follows that the dealer in horsemeat is a citizen of substance, respected and honored in his community.
Such is Monsieur Marius Auteroche, purchasing agent of an abattoir in the town of Arcueil (pop. 16,000), which lies just south of Paris. A barrel-shaped little man of 52, dressed in his blue trousers, yellow turtle-neck sweater, blue smock and blue fedora, Monsieur Auteroche may be seen any day inspecting the beasts that are brought to him, appraising them with an expert eye, rapidly calculating the price that may be paid for them and still insure a profit on the butchered and dressed meat. But if one looks at Monsieur Auteroche and sees only the buyer of horsemeat, he does not see all. For, as anyone in Arcueil will attest, Monsieur Auteroche is a connoisseur of horses that are bred to run and jump and trot. Indeed, he himself was a driver of trotters for a while after World War II, winning a dozen races and the nickname of "Little Giant" from the sportswriters. So it will be evident that when Monsieur Auteroche looks at a horse brought to the abattoir, he sees more, sometimes, than hamburger. More than once he has spotted a thoroughbred still able to run again.
For instance, there was this certain horse named Fanfaron IV. Only 18 months old, Fanfaron was a member of a stable whose owner suddenly became disgusted with its inability to win races. "Sell off the older ones," he cried. "Let the younger ones be butchered for meat!" Thus it happened that one day, little more than a year ago, Fanfaron joined the procession that paraded before Monsieur Auteroche.