“Do it?”—Peter chuckled scornfully—“you watch!” He opened throttle as he spoke; fingered lever gently from neutral to first, first to second, second to top. Horse-chestnuts popped from tire-covers as the Crossley gathered way. Arlsfield Park, a blurr of tree-trunks at side and interlaced branches overhead, spun behind them. They missed Sid Dyson’s timber-tug by an ant’s breadth; hooted past the Colonel’s crested gate-pillars; switchbacked downhill towards Henley.
Dilly and Dally, feet tight-propped against the provision basket, looked at each other in mock alarm. “It wasn’t our fault,” stammered Francis through chattering teeth, “why wasn’t the Octopus on time? He said half-past eight.”
Beatrice, craning forward a moment, eyed the speedometer. “What are we doing, Beatrice?” “Forty-five and a chip.” “Lord!”
The car shot on, purring—Peter, nearly recumbent, notched wheel gripped easily in gloved hands; Patricia bolt upright, eyes on the speeding hedge-rows.
They made the six miles to Henley in a fraction over twelve minutes; swirled righthanded at the railway-station; took the water-front at a bound; skidded the Bridge-corner on two wheels. Church, bridge and river vanished like mad movies.
“Going well,” muttered Peter through set teeth. White Hill rose up like a roof ahead. “Open that cut-out for me.” Exhaust roaring, cylinders throbbing, the Crossley hurtled up between the trees; slowed to twenty; felt herself flung back into second; topped the rise; raced engine the fraction of an instant; took top-gear again; shot on.
Houses, trees, a crawling dray, flashed astern. Gray tarmac zipped under. Ahead, the road rose; dropped; rose again. Now, they were in open country. Peter took one deep breath; fidgeted throttle-lever full open; jammed foot on accelerator. Couple behind felt the car gather herself as if for a great leap; saw passing hedge-rows fade out to a continuous blurr. Speedometer-needle clicked to sixty; held there for three and a half ecstatic minutes. . . .
“Right, isn’t it?” shouted Peter suddenly. “Yes.” Patricia, map on knee, watched Hurley Bottom skim by. He slowed; climbed a hair-pin turn warily; nipped across the Thicket; veered left for Maidenhead.
The clock at Nicholson’s Brewery showed five minutes past ten as they crawled down into the town; opened out again for the Bridge; swished over it past Skindle’s Hotel.
“Shall we do it?” asked Pat.