The traffic was growing now with every furlong. Belated lorries rumbled about their business: cars panted and raved into the night: carts jolted out of turnings into the great main road.
When I think of the chances I took, the palms of my hands grow hot. To wait for others to grant my request for room was out of the question. I said I was coming…. I came—and that was that. Times out of number I overtook vehicles upon the wrong side. As for the frequent turnings, I hoped for the best….
Once, where four ways met, I thought we were done.
A car was coming across—I could see its headlights' beam. I opened the throttle wide, and we raced for the closing gap. As we came to the cross of the roads, I heard an engine's roar…. For an instant a searchlight raked us…. There was a cry from Berry … an answering shout … the noise of tires tearing at the road … and that was all.
A moment later I was picking my way between two labouring waggons and a trio of straggling carts.
"BORDEAUX 8," quoted Piers.
Five more miles—and eleven minutes to go.
Piers had the plan of the city upon his knees. He conned it as best he could by the glow of the hooded light. After a moment or two he thrust the book away.
"The station's this end of the town. We can't miss it. I'll tell you when to turn."
Three minutes more, and our road had become a street. Two parallel, glittering lines warned me of trams to come.