“Well, Sar, you no trust my car, you let me see your wheels?”
“Certainly,” I said “you may look at them,” determined in my own mind I should keep my eye on him while he did.
He got out a machine for propping the axle, and lifted the wheel off the ground.
“Make the wheel go round,” he said.
I didn’t like it much, but I gave the wheel a turn. He looked at it till it stopped.
“You lose match if you take that car,” he said, “you take my car, Sar.”
“What do you mean?” said I, pretty sharply.
“Look here,” he said, setting the wheel going again. “You see here, Sar, it die, all in a minute, it jerk, doesn’t die smooth. You see my wheel, Sar.”
He put the lift under his own, and started the wheel revolving. It took about three times as long to die as mine, going steady and silent and stopping imperceptibly, not so much as a tremor in it.
“Now, Sar!” he said, “you see I speak true, Sar. I back you two hundred rupee, if I lose I’m ruin, and I beg you, Sar, take my car! can no win with yours, mine match car.”