“That’s true,” said the constable. “But it wouldn’t make any odds—at Linghurst.”
My engineer skipped into the bracken like a rabbit. I bade him cut across Sir Michael Gregory’s park, and if he caught my friend, to tell him I should probably be rather late for lunch.
“I ain’t going to be driven by him.” Our destined prey pointed at Hinchcliffe with apprehension.
“Of course not. You take my seat and keep the big sailor in order. He’s too drunk to do much. I’ll change places with the other one. Only be quick; I want to pay my fine and get it over.”
“That’s the way to look at it,” he said, dropping into the left rear seat. “We’re making quite a lot out o’ you motor gentry.” He folded his arms judicially as the car gathered way under Hinchcliffe’s stealthy hand.
“But you aren’t driving?” he cried, half rising.
“You’ve noticed it?” said Pyecroft, and embraced him with one anaconda-like left arm.
“Don’t kill him,” said Hinchcliffe briefly. “I want to show him what twenty-three and a quarter is.” We were going a fair twelve, which was about the car’s limit.
Our passenger swore something and then groaned.
“Hush, darling!” said Pyecroft, “or I’ll have to hug you.”