“I am ravenous. We ought to have gained an hour or two by the time we reach Turin, and can then get a meal. Look out, George; this is rather steep.”
They were descending the hill into Chambéry, and here, for the first time since leaving Paris, they were delayed at the octroi barrier. It was not yet dark, and hearing the hum of the approaching car, the official stepped out of his little house into the road and held up his hand as a signal to stop.
“There is no tax on petrol here; why can’t they leave us alone?” grumbled George, as he brought the car to a standstill.
“They like to show their authority, I suppose,” replied Maurice. “Treat them civilly, and all will be well.”
“Permit me, Monsieur,” said the man courteously, lifting his hat.
“Certainly, Monsieur,” said Maurice, rising in his seat.
The man looked into the car to see if the travellers had anything taxable concealed: then poked a bamboo stick down among the air-chambers, George being on thorns lest he should puncture them. Finding nothing suspicious, he smiled pleasantly, lifted his hat again, and waved his hand to indicate that the car might proceed.
“Confounded red tape!” growled George, as he re-started, after lighting his lamp. “Now I’ll let her rip. What sort of road is it, Maurice? Switch on the light and look at your Guide.”
“It’s a hundred and one kilometres to Modane, a gradual ascent all the way. We’re coming among the mountains.”
“That’s all right. We’ll beat Slavianski easily, going up-hill. And how much farther to Turin?”