"Here," came the airy reply, "you mustn't 'sir' me. I'm the comic chauffeur—your fellow-bondsman, to wit. Name of Alison." He extended a firm brown hand. "Not to put too fine a point upon it, I'm overwhelmed to meet you. With the slightest encouragement, I shall fall upon your neck. The last footman was poor company, and took two baths in three months. My wife didn't try to like him. She's the parlour-maid."
Anthony took the other's hand like a man in a dream.
"I can't believe it," he said simply. "Is this a leg-pull?"
"No blinkin' fear," said Alison. "We're all in the same boat. What a topping dog!"
Anthony felt inclined to fling his hat upon the ground and yell with delight. Instead, he thrust his baggage into the car and, stepping in front of the bonnet, took hold of the starting-handle.
"Is it safe?" he said, straddling. "Or will she go round with my hand?"
"Well, we do usually get some one to stand on the step," said Alison, "but, if you like to risk it …"
A moment later they were hurtling along a white-brown ribbon of road that sloped sideways out of the valley and on to the top of the moor.
Alison chattered away light-heartedly.
"You see in me," he said, "the complete chauffeur. With my livery on and two thousand five hundred pounds' worth of Rolls-Royce all round me, I'm simply it. My only fear is that, when you turn out beside me, the whole perishin' concern will be caught up to heaven. However, I really think you'll be happy."