“You’ll find nothing at all like this strange little Clovelly.”—Page [250].
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ROCHESTER AND CANTERBURY
As soon as the familiar chugging of the motor was heard at the front door in Cavendish Square, John hurried out. Just as he was examining all the chauffeur’s arrangements for the trip, and looking with approval over the entire automobile, the whir of the engine suddenly gasped, struggled to catch its breath, and then ceased altogether. The chauffeur, perfectly unconcerned, swung himself off from his seat and sauntered around to “crank her up,” but his expression of assurance soon changed, for the motor refused to start.
John’s face was pitiful to see. “Oh, bother!” he cried, running to where the chauffeur stood, in front of the hood. “Why has it got to go and spoil it all like that! It’s mean, I say! Can’t you fix her? What’s wrong?”
Off came the chauffeur’s nicely-brushed coat, his clean hands handled oily tools, and a big streak of grease soon appeared upon his trousers. Great was his humiliation! After about fifteen minutes of disagreeable work, all was well, however,—the engine started, and the sound was again smooth and steady. John’s expression was radiant, and he came to help the ladies in, while the forlorn chauffeur retired to make himself presentable.
“Now, we’re off for Canterbury!” John announced triumphantly, as they at last glided around a corner into Piccadilly.