“Fiddlesticks!” she replied scornfully and stalked inside.
I have since reflected on Tish during that air raid, on the calm manner in which she filled the gasoline tank of her ambulance, on the way in which she flung out six empty ice-cream freezers, and the perfect aplomb with which she kicked the tires to see if they contained sufficient air. For such attributes I have nothing but admiration. But I am not so certain as to the mental processes which permitted her calmly to take three spare tires from other cars and to throw them into the ambulance.
Perhaps there is with all true greatness an element of ruthlessness. Or perhaps she subsequently sent conscience money to the Red Cross anonymously. There are certain matters on which I do not interrogate her.
I was still sitting on the running board of a limousine inhaling my smelling salts when she pronounced all ready and we got into the driving seat and started. Just as we moved out a man came in from the street and began to yell at us. When Tish paid no attention to him he took a flying leap and landed on the step beside us.
“Here, what the —— do you think you are doing?” he said in English. “Where’s your permit?”
Tish said nothing, but turned out into the street and threw on the gas. He was on my side and the jerk almost flung him off.
“Stop this car!” he yelled. “Hey, Grogan! Grogan!”
But whoever Grogan was he was still in some cellar probably, and by that time we were going very fast. Unluckily the glass in the street cut all four tires almost immediately, and we swung madly from one side to the other. And just then, too, we struck the hole the shell had made, and went into it with a terrible bump. The man disappeared immediately, but Tish was quite composed. She simply changed gears, and the car crawled out on the other side.
“This motor will go anywhere, Lizzie,” she said easily. “I feel that my judgment is entirely vindicated. Where’s that man?”
“Killed, probably,” I retorted with a certain acidity.