“Bit damp for it here,” said Turner. They looked at the car. Turner knew a “bit” about cars, but he hadn’t troubled to know much about this one. Turner despised this car—compared to that shining two-seater!
“Petrol,” said Ivor. And while Turner emptied a green tin, Ivor fiddled about with the switchboard—there wasn’t much to fiddle about with on that switchboard!—and then threw up the bonnet and pressed things thoughtfully.
Turner thought of the rain outside, and he looked at the car. Won’t get to London in this, he thought disgustedly.
“Come on, man!” cried Ivor! “It won’t start by staring at it. Give it a twist.”
Turner gave it several twists, for the American’s starting-handle was not one of those fierce ones that object to being twisted. Turner twisted furiously, but only the thinnest of gurgles resulted.
“It’s not going to-night,” Turner said. He was glad.
Ivor pressed the carburettor until it was wet with petrol.
“Let me,” he said; and he twisted furiously.
“There’s something wrong, sir,” said Turner. He was very glad.
And Ivor suddenly laughed. He had suddenly seen a picture of Turner and himself battling with that absurd and dirty old car in a ramshackle shed, trying to get to London and Virginia, and he laughed.