"Nothing braces one up like a sharp bit of motoring before a speech," said Mr. Clutterbuck, as he got into the open Renault.
Charlie Fitzgerald was occupied in hauling away at the barrel organ in front of the radiator. He made faces as he did so.
Mr. Clutterbuck was rubbing his hands nervously and glancing at the sky.
"It looks dark," he went on, still rubbing his hands, "but I dare say nothing will come of it."
Charlie Fitzgerald, with a face more hideous than any yet drawn, gave a final tug at the starting handle and the machine began to throb. He jumped up by Mr. Clutterbuck's side and steered slowly past the lodge into the Croydon Road, while Mr. Clutterbuck kept on harping at his side upon the advantages of a sharp spin before a speech, and the doubtfulness of the weather. They fell into the main road and turned sharply to the left.
"Taking us far afield?" said Mr. Clutterbuck cheerfully. Nothing pleased him more than the experience of his secretary in the driving of a car. "Godalming, eh?"
Charlie Fitzgerald spoke for the first time:
"Something of that kind," he said. "Just a long run.... We'll go further than Godalming; we'll go right away round, and come into town from the north and west by the Harrow Road. It's much better like that; we won't get any of the slums. Let's eat somewhere in the country."