"Now look here!" he said. "You take a pull, young man. You're going altogether too far and too fast. And I'm speaking not as a magistrate but as your old school-master."
At the Bowling Green Committee that evening, while the minutes were being read, he retailed the incident to Mr. Trupp.
"That little ewe-lamb o yours is turning tiger because he can't have it all his own way," he said. "Going to upset Society because he's not King."
Mr. Trupp was amused.
"Arrested development," he said. "He's an interesting study in pathology."
"Criminal pathology," muttered Mr. Pigott.
Whether in the interests of Science, or of expediency, next day Mr. Trupp rolled into Alf's garage, with a blue long-dog, a descendant of the original She, wearing the studded collar of her ancestress, at his heels.
No man had made a stiffer fight against the new and aggressive locomotive than the great surgeon.
Pests of the road, he called them, and refused to recognize his friends when driving them. He affirmed that they upset his horses and his patients; made the place stink; and whirled through the country-side disseminating disease in clouds of dust. But he was no fool, and increasingly busy. A machine that could whisk him over to Lewes in little more than thirty minutes, and land him at the Metropole in Brighton in the hour, was not to be scoffed at.
Alf was cleaning his car when Mr. Trupp, greatly muffled in spite of the heat, strolled into his yard.