And then, at the point where the main highway narrows and begins an S turn, with numerous side-streets complicating the problem, George espied a vehicle proceeding slowly in the same direction as he. It was a market-booth on four wheels, shuttered up at the sides, returning to its stabling after the night’s market. On the side in painted crimson lettering ran the inscription: “H. Bullock. Temperance Liquors and Fruit Beverages.” The whole was drawn by a tired, meditative horse. The existence of this equipage in the middle of the road created a problem. George was rapidly overtaking it, and of course he should have passed by on the right or off-side. But that would have meant checking pace and honk-honking vigorously to clear people out of the way. Whereas he was driving close to the kerb and could see a space between it and the vehicle which seemed ample for passage. Besides, it was rather stylish to “nip in” between vehicles and the kerb. People would stare back at him and mutter, “Reckless fellow!” and by the time they had resumed their walk he would be on the outskirts of the town. Accordingly, summoning his features for an intensely Viking expression, he decided to “nip in.” The road was narrowing, and he knew he would have to put on a spurt. The accelerator moved, and they went forward with a bound. Blurred mists of passing faces swept by along the kerb.... There was a sudden jar. The side-car wheel had mounted the pavement, which was here only an inch or so above the roadway. Nevertheless, no harm had yet been done. And then the appalling vision of a lamp-post seized hold of George and wrought havoc with his presence of mind. That lamp-post obsessed him, possessed him, threw him into inarticulate terror. That lamp-post would slice off the wheel of the side-car as a scythe cuts grass. It was therefore necessary at all costs to avoid that lamp-post. With a mighty sense of the tremendous issues that hung upon the merest fractional movement of his hands, George swerved to the right. Even as he did so he could almost feel the sickening impact of the lamp-post. He waited for what seemed a long minute—waited for the sudden jar and shiver and crumple. Strange to say it did not come.... Then with a feeling of overwhelming relief he perceived that the obstacle had been passed. The lamp-post was already behind him, an unsuccessful syren baulked of its prey. Exquisite moment! Colossal thrill! Magnificent piece of steering! And then ...
A sudden grind of the front wheel, a sort of convulsive jerk which threw him sideways on top of the side-car, and a medley of snapping and shivering and crumpling sounds. Then (it seemed an age before he mastered the situation) he shouted to Catherine, whose ear was not so very far from his mouth: “By Jove, we must have cannoned into that cart!”
His voice was as the voice of one who is immensely interested in a subtle and curious phenomenon....
§ 12
George was distressed.
He and Catherine were slowly walking to Bishop’s Stortford railway station. The Viking expression had left his features; the motor-cap and goggles and overalls and gloves were tied up in a brown-paper parcel which he carried under his arm. Also, his face was very dirty.
Terrible things had happened to him.
A couple of policemen had taken his full name and address, and made copious entries in notebooks.
Mr. H. Bullock had sworn vividly. In trying to estimate the extent of damage to his front wheel George had tactlessly turned the full glare of the acetylene lamp upon the horse’s eye. The horse had hitherto been uncertain whether the situation justified panic flight or not; now he decided swiftly in the affirmative. He rushed forward precipitately, and in less than a dozen yards had smashed off the wheel of the cart against a pillar-box. The cart sagged despairingly, and streams of bilious lemonade poured through the flooring. Mr. Bullock’s language became terrific.
And then one of the policemen had said: “By the way, got your licence?”