The girl stepped forward, her whitely gray gown showing moth-like in the shadows. The disgruntled performers were busy picking themselves out of the hedge, breathing somewhat offhand apology.
“I hope they didn’t hurt you?” she began anxiously. “It’s the Tango. They don’t seem able to stop doing it, and of course they are only boys and very foolish. I do hope you’re not hurt!”
Lancaster assured her, smiling a little grimly, that he was perfectly whole. If anybody was hurt, it was much more likely to be the Tangoists in the hedge. These now came up, still panting.
“Licks creation! Stuns the stars! Bangs Banagher! I say, beastly sorry we barged into you like that. Took you for a turnip, honest injun we did! We’re shooting over to Bluecaster after a smoke-shop, and we thought it just as easy to tango there. And I say, look here! You’ll know what time they close, I expect. I suppose we can do it all right?”
“It’s six furlongs, and you’ve just ten minutes,” Lancaster answered severely. “You may do it, with luck. But if you beat Banagher down the hill in that costume, you’ll probably find yourself in jail in less time still.”
“Right-o, old cock! What’s a furlong, anyway? Anybody seen a furlong? As to the togs, why, it’s the country, the dear, silly old simple-life country! You can do anything you like in the country, or else what’s the good of it? Come on, you fellows, we’ve got to get that smoke!”
They flew together again in a furious embrace, and spun away out of sight, whistling like flying engines at a crossing. The girl and the singer stayed behind, still apologetic.
“You’d have gone quicker by the main road,” Lancaster said stiffly, still resentful. “But of course you probably know that already.”
She nodded.
“Yes. But the boys wanted to come by the lane. They love the lane. When they don’t tango, they bring the car and squeeze her along as fast as they can. The hedges are too high, though; you daren’t risk the turns. If they were only clipped so that you could see over, it would make a fine test for steering!”