The third bidon was discharging its contents into Pong's tank, and Berry was sitting wearily upon the running-board, with his mouth full and a glass of beer in his hand, when, with an apologetic cough, Ping emerged from behind an approaching tram and slid past us over the cobbles with a smooth rush. The off-side window was open, and, as the car went by, Jonah waved to us.
There was no doubt about it, my cousin was out to win. It was also transparently clear that Adèle and I, at any rate, had lost our money. We could not compete with an average of thirty-six miles an hour.
"Boy!"
"Yes, darling?"
"Is that the last bidon?"
"Yes. But Berry won't have finished for at least ten minutes.
Besides——"
"Couldn't I drive for a bit, just till he's finished his lunch?"
I stared at my wife. Then—
"I don't see why you shouldn't, dear, except that the streets of
Bordeaux are rather rough on a beginner."
"I'll be very careful," pleaded Adèle, "and—and, after all, we shall be moving. And it can't affect the bets. Nothing was said about Berry having to drive."