"A trial spin?" I echoed, wondering what bigger project he had in view.
He nodded and drew in a great breath.
It was spring, and the windows were open, and the air was like wine. Gran'pa seemed to be half intoxicated.
"By the Lord Harry!" he exclaimed. "It's the greatest thing I've done. We left Brooklands at two sharp and were back at a quarter to five—with two loops and a nose-dive en route. I've fixed up another jaunt on Sunday—with you and Molly. And next week I'm popping over to Rome and back. If the journey's satisfactory, I intend buying the machine."
"Doing what?" I gasped.
His eyes twinkled as he watched Molly and me, and with an exaggerated nonchalance, he lit his pipe and sat down on the edge of the dining-room table—the very embodiment of a vigorous, middle-aged man, at least fifty years younger than himself. . . .
"I've a specification here, somewhere," he said, fumbling in his breast pocket, and presently drawing out a scrap of paper. "Vickers-Vimy Rolls-Royce. The most reliable combination in the world, George, . . . Just read that through and tell me what you think of it."
I read through a specification which might have been Yiddish, so little did it enlighten me.
"It looks as if it will cost a fortune," I observed.
"Not at all! In fact, I'm getting three brand new ones."