“Because otherwise I shall infallibly end by killing somebody.”
“You needn’t if you only take reasonable care.”
“And that is precisely what I never shall do. There’s a fascination about it—a sense of power—it’s as fatal as gambling. Yes; I must give it up.”
He got on his feet with an effort and regarded himself. Disgust at the mud on his clothes and his hands apparently preoccupied his mind, though he had scratched his face and bumped his head and bruised himself most thoroughly all down his side; in addition, Bernard saw that his right hand was streaming with blood. This he had not noticed until Bernard pointed it out.
“Oh, that was the flints,” he observed, in his former quaint and lazy way.
“Lucky for you you didn’t fall right on them. Your wrist’s cut to the bone.”
“So I should fancy,” said the stranger, wincing under Bernard’s ministrations. He looked so faint with pain and loss of blood that Bernard went down to the dog-cart and brought up the flask which he carried in case of accidents; with Vronsky in the shafts they were to be expected. But when he got back the stranger was at the top of the bank examining his car, and rejected the brandy with thanks and scorn.
“It hasn’t suffered much,” he said, with satisfaction. “There’s a small crack in the panel, but if I can get the batteries in I believe I shall be able to go on.”
“You can’t steer the thing with that wrist. You’d better come on with me to Dove Green; it’s only a mile on, and you can send back for the car.”
“One doesn’t need two hands to steer.”