“For the love of mud!” I gurgled. “Throw in the clutch.”
“I can’t make it work.”
“What!” I squeaked. “Are we stalled?”
The other took that as a slam at his driving, I guess.
“Oh, no!” came sarcastically. “I’m just dilly-dallying along so that we can enjoy the magnificent scenery. And see the beau-utiful wild flowers!” he gestured, like a nut. “Aren’t they perfectly scrumptious?... Climb out, Jerry, and see if a hunk of the engine is dragging in the sand.”
I got out, all right—and in a hurry, too, let me tell you. But don’t imagine that I stopped to check up on the engine. Not so you can notice it. What I did instead was to hoof it for the back-line trenches, away from the firing line, as fast as my number eights would carry me. Let the dead cows and horses fight it out among themselves, was my indifference. Their troubles weren’t anything to me.
Nor did Poppy stick it out very long, with the hunks of future chicken feed sizzling past his nose like swarming bullets.
“The beau-utiful wild flowers,” I mimicked, as he staggered out of the smoke of battle.
“Traitor!” says he, and he kind of meant it, too.
“What did you expect me to do?” I flung back at him. “Stand between you and the wind and fan you with a perfume bottle?”