"Yessir," said Tims, straightening himself.
"You understand," said Malcolm Sage, looking at him sharply, "you or any other mechanic?"
"Yessir," repeated Tims, his face sphinx-like in its lack of expression.
He was a clean-shaven, fleshless little man who, had he not been a chauffeur, would probably have spent his life with a straw between his teeth, hissing lullabies to horses.
"I shall be ready at nine," said Malcolm Sage, and with another
"Yessir" Tims turned to go.
"And Tims."
"Yessir." He about-faced smartly on his right heel. "You might apologise for me to Mrs. Tims for depriving her of you on Sunday. Take her out to dinner on Monday and charge it to me."
"Thank you, sir, very much, sir," said Tims, his face expressionless.
"That is all, Tims, thank you."
Tims turned once more and left the room. As he walked towards the outer door he winked at Gladys Norman and, with a sudden dive, made a frightful riot of William Johnson's knut-like hair. Then, without change of expression, he passed out to tune up the car for its run on the morrow.