I was too dispirited to answer that. "Let's have a drink," I said. "There's a tavern. At least we can have a mug of ale before we go back."
"Right." He parked the Jaguar expertly if rather slowly. We went into the tavern, which was called The Leathern Funnel.
"Well, gents, what'll it be?" inquired the barmaid affably.
"Two ales, miss, if you please," said the Colonel. It was lucky for me that he ordered. I could not have produced anything but a squeak or a howl. The mugs bumped down before us and I picked mine up with both hands and drank it off like a thirst-mad sot after a month of bread-and-water. Then I aimed myself carefully at the door and put on the greatest piece of acting of my career; I walked casually and without a single stumble all the way to the street. The Colonel came after me.
"What the deuce, Chester! You don't allow a chap much time to enjoy his bit of ale," he grumbled.
I got in at the off side of the Jaguar without speaking and put my hands on the wheel. "Ready?" I managed to ask.
"Here, I'm to drive."
"You are like hell. Get in." He did. "Hang on." I nudged the old girl out of the village and when we were hidden by the first hill I trod on her pedals with all my weight and terror behind my feet. We crashed off into a beautiful eighty m.p.h., which I held or surpassed all the way home. Three or four times he tried to bellow something at me. I ignored him.
When we had flown up the long winding drive I put her into the stables, part of which we had fitted up as a garage. Then I sat there in the gloom and shook with what felt like fever.
"Here, what is it, laddie?" he barked. "What's wrong?"