He brought the car to a standstill and leapt out. The explanation was immediately obvious. A trail of petrol lay behind the car, stretching out of sight.
“The outlet plug of the tank has fallen out,” he cried, “and I haven’t another.”
He ran back, searching the path for the missing plug. Maurice sprang after him, snatching up Giorgio’s rifle, in case the enemy came in sight. George hurried to the spot where the trail of petrol began, but there was no plug.
“What an ass I am!” he cried. “We were going at a good speed, and of course the plug might be carried some yards. Hunt back along with me, Maurice.”
So many stones lay on the path that they almost despaired of finding the plug. But Maurice’s foot by-and-by struck against something which the instinct acquired in searching for lost golf balls told him was not a stone. He stooped, and picked up the missing plug.
“Good man,” said George. “It’s lucky we’ve plenty of petrol left, for the tank is as empty as a drum, you may be sure.”
They ran back to the car, replaced the plug, and filled the tank from one of the tins. Then they started again; the accident had cost them more than five minutes. The shouts from the hill-tops sounded nearer. Giorgio now and again flung out his hand on one side or the other, to signify the exact direction from which the shout came. Like a batsman who has just been “let off” in the long field, George seemed to become reckless. He drove the car at a speed that made Giorgio cling in terror to the back of the seat, and even provoked a remonstrance from Maurice.
“All right, old man,” said George jubilantly. “We’ve got another life, and——By Jove! Is that the Drin?”
“Yes, yes,” shouted Giorgio in wild excitement. “It is the Black Drin. We have won the race.”