“Angoulême,” said the chauffeur, thumbing his itinerary. “That’s right. Vivonne, Chaunay, Ruffec, Angoulême. Sleep Angoulême. Nex’ day—Barbézieux, Bordeaux. Sleep Bor—— ’Elp!”
He dropped his paper and caught his companion as she swayed. Then he carried her into the saloon and sought for a stewardess. . . .
Later that day he recounted his experience to a friend.
“I arst ’er if she was a good sailor, too,” he concluded aggrievedly.
Four days later, as they were entering Poitiers, a brake-rod snapped. No resultant damage was done, but the car was stopped at a garage that Terry—the chauffeur—might see if an adjustment could be made. By good fortune, it could.
The car was backed over a pit, and Terry got out of his coat and into his overalls. He was a good chauffeur. Where his car was concerned, he fancied his own fingers more than a hireling’s.
The Major got out and went strolling. Lady Joan stayed in the car. Madeleine stood in the garage, translating for Terry.
Half an hour’s work, and the connection was made.
Terry heaved himself out of the pit and called for waste.
The mechanics stared.