When Philip returned to the show-room, Mr. Brand had completed his task and departed to his own place.
"Our chatty friend," announced Timothy, "has put me up to most of the tips. I shall be a prize chauffeur in no time." He surveyed the gleaming car admiringly. "She's a beauty. What should I be able to knock out of her? Sixty?"
"Quite that."
"Wow-wow!" observed Mr. Rendle contentedly. "I don't mind laying a thousand to thirty that I get my licence endorsed inside three weeks."
Philip, who regarded new machinery much as a young mother regards a new baby, turned appealingly to the cheerful young savage beside him.
"Don't push her too much at first," he said. "Give the bearings a chance for a hundred miles or two. And—I wouldn't go road-hogging if I were you."
Timothy turned to him in simple wonder.
"But what on earth is the use of my getting a forty-horse-power car," he enquired almost pathetically, "if I can't let her rip?"
"There are too many towns and villages round London to give you much of a chance," said Philip tactfully. "You will be able to find some good open stretches, though, if you get right out west or north," he added, as Timothy's face continued to express disappointment. "Or, I'll tell you what. Take the car to Brooklands, and see what she can do in the level hour."
The face of the car's owner—whose conscience upon the subject of road-racing was evidently at war with his instincts—brightened wonderfully.