Ah! There was the toot of a motor in the far distance, again repeated. It was the Tadcaster toot—a base twentieth century substitute for the cry that on the field of Towton in 1461 led another John de Mallaby to a barony and an estate.
Cunningham recovered his cycle, be-straddled it, and gently mounted the rise in front. The Panhard dashed up the hill, its acetylene lamps glaring like man-o'-war searchlights.
Cunningham advanced his spark. The motor responded, and sprang eagerly after the car. They were leaving him behind. He slowly opened his throttle valve. Now he was making pace. He was gaining on them yard by yard, hand over fist. He was only a hundred yards behind now—fifty—twenty-five. Could he do it? The psychological moment had come.
He drew his revolver and aimed at the near back tyre of the car in front. Ah! he had missed. He hit it with his second shot. It split with a rousing bang. The car listed and dragged. It swerved across the road in violent curves, but Cunningham saw by the slowing of the speed that the driver had thrown out his clutch. At last it stopped.
"'SOFTLY, MY LORD,' SAID CUNNINGHAM; 'I AM COVERING YOU, YOU OBSERVE.'"
"What's the meaning of this outrage, you scoundrel?" cried the infuriated motorist.
"Softly, my lord," said Cunningham, now on his feet, and advancing with revolver in hand. "I am covering you, you observe!"
"A highwayman, by George!" exclaimed the peer. "And Edward VII. on the throne. A highwayman on castors!"