“Hold fast!” I said to my companion, and I laid on all the harder.
The engine growled; the hooter yelled with pain, or bellowed with rage. On the sheet-metal of the hood, the blows rained thick and fast, and the thrashing made the woods resound with a fabulous noise.
Suddenly uttering a shrill scream like an elephant, the metallic mastodon gave a bound, executed two or three plunges, and then dashed forward with the speed of lightning.
A runaway!
I was no longer master of the situation. The frenzy of a mad monster ruled our fate. We were almost flying. The 80 h. p. car sped on with the rapidity of a falling body. We could no longer breathe the wild rushing air. Sometimes the hooter gave a strident cry.
We flashed through Grey-l’Abbaye like lightning. Hens and ducks were under our wheels—blood on my glasses. We were going so fast that the brass-plate of Maître Pallud gave me the impression of a golden streak.
On issuing from the village, the Route Nationale hedged us with its plane trees, then the long hill with its slope formed an obstacle to our speed. There, showing signs of weariness, for the first time, the car slackened down, and allowed itself to be managed.
I had to thrash it often, to make it bring us as far as Nanthel where we got in late, and without any hitch. As we passed over a gutter, however, the copper mouth uttered an exclamation of pain, and I saw that the jolt had just broken a spring of the off hind wheel.
When we got into the courtyard of the Hotel, I tried to fasten a new spring into the felloe, but did not succeed. My attempts roused such a noise from the hooter, that I had to give up trying to repair the damage; besides it was not very urgent.