"Shall I slide down backwards and begin again?" he inquired.
"No, thanks," said I. "I have a foolish preference for facing death."
"D'you think we could push it up?" said Daphne.
"Frankly," said I, "I don't. You see, she weighs over a ton without the luggage."
Berry cleared his throat.
"I am not," he said, "going through the farce of asking what I do wrong, because I know the answer. It's not the right one, but you seem incapable of giving any other."
"I am," said I.
"Well, don't say it," said Berry, "because, if you do, I shall scream. No man born of woman could let in that clutch more slowly, and yet you say it's too fast. The truth is, there's something wrong with the car."
"There soon will be," I retorted. "The starter will fail. Then every time you stop the engine you'll have to get out and crank. That'll make you think."
"'Make me think'?" yelled Berry. "D'you think I haven't been thinking? D'you think I'm not thinking now? Haven't I almost burst my brains with thinking?" Daphne began to laugh helplessly. "That's right," added her husband savagely. "See the humorous side. I may go mad any minute, but don't let that stop you." And, with that, he set his foot upon the self-starter.