Mr. Weller tells of a very funny incident. When everything had been looking promising, one afternoon Harry, smiling as usual, came into the office and called him down to the yard. “Come and have a look at the engine,” he said. “I’ve got something to show you.” And he had. Mr. Weller found the remains of the precious engine strapped to the back of Harry’s Rolls-Royce, the body of which he had recently discarded, and in the interval of the fitting of the new body ran it for “use,” as he called it.
A gaping hole was in the crank-case of the engine big enough to put a boot in. Harry then produced a tangled remnant which had once done duty as a connecting-rod, saying: “It shot clean across the track! I walked back and found it lying on the grass; it was still warm when I picked it up.” It was quite true he found it in the exact spot he shed it, but while the design was almost identical, on close inspection the stamping number proved conclusively that it was not an A.C. rod at all, but some other unfortunate who must have gone round just before. As far as I know, the proper remains were never found.
Even this disaster failed to deter Harry. Although the cross-shaft was smashed and A.C.’s had no spare crank-case available, he very quickly improvised a bracket and remounted the magneto in front of the engine, where, driven by a chain, it operated very well. A patch was welded on the crank-case and the engine was soon running again with as much “pep” as ever.
With the advent of high and sustained speeds the exhaust valves commenced to give trouble. The valve-heads could usually be found reposing on the bottom of the sump, but on one occasion, after a fruitless three-hour search, Harry discovered the valve-head must have gone out through the exhaust-pipe!
Once, as the car was coming off the Byfleet banking on the track, after a lap or two at speed, unmistakable sounds proclaimed that the “umpteenth” valve-head had broken. It being the day before it was to race at a meeting, it was a very serious matter, but Harry, nothing daunted, mechanically began to tie the rope attaching the A.C. on to the Minerva, saying: “We’ll be with them when the flag falls.” That his confidence was justified is now a matter of light-car history. The Minerva I have just mentioned was my car, which Harry had had fitted with an enclosed body upholstered in Bedford cord for comfortable winter motoring. It degenerated into a travelling workshop for the A.C., which little car I always followed proudly to Brooklands, complete with tow-rope and spares, and nearly always, less proudly, preceded it home, connected by the rope.
Photo by]
[Temple Press, Ltd.
THE 12-CYLINDER RACING SUNBEAM AFTER HARRY’S SMASH AT BROOKLANDS, WHEN SEVERAL YARDS OF CORRUGATED IRON FENCING WERE TORN DOWN.
[Facing p. 312.