"Good Heavens!" I cried. Then: "Look out for that tram, lady. You'd better…"
As the tram was left standing, I caught my brother-in-law by the arm.
"She can drive!" I said stupidly.
"Nonsense," said Berry, "I'm willing her."
"You fool!" I shouted, shaking him. "I tell you she can drive!" We flashed between two waggons. "Look at that! She's a first-class driver, and she's going to save your stake!"
"What's really worrying me," said Adèle, "is how we're to pass Jonah without him seeing us."
There was an electric silence. Then—
"For-rard!" yelled Berry. "For-r-a-r-d! Out of the way, fat face, or we'll take the coat off your back." A portly Frenchman leaped into safety with a scream. "That's the style. For-rard! Fill the fife, dear heart, fill the blinkin' fife; there's a cyciclist on the horizon. For-rard!"
To sound the horn would have been a work of supererogation. Maddened by our vociferous exuberance, Nobby lifted up his voice and barked like a demoniac. The ungodly hullaballoo with which we shook the dust of Bordeaux from off our tires will be remembered fearfully by all who witnessed our exit from that city.
When I had indulged my excitement, I left the terrier and Berry to finish the latter's lunch and turned to my wife.