Henry Salt Hinchcliffe stalked back to the cart and spoke to his cousin. I recall much that the wind bore to me of his words and the carrier’s. It seemed as if the friendship of years were dissolving amid throes.
“’Ave it your own silly way, then,” roared the carrier, “an’ get into Linghurst on your own silly feet. I’ve done with you two runagates.” He lashed his horse and passed out of sight still rumbling.
“The fleet’s sailed,” said Pyecroft, “leavin’ us on the beach as before. Had you any particular port in your mind?”
“Well, I was going to meet a friend at Instead Wick, but I don’t mind—”
“Oh! that’ll do as well as anything! We’re on leaf, you see.”
“She’ll hardly hold four,” said my engineer. I had broken him of the foolish habit of being surprised at things, but he was visibly uneasy.
Hinchcliffe returned, drawn as by ropes to my steam-car, round which he walked in narrowing circles.
“What’s her speed?” he demanded of the engineer.
“Twenty-five,” said that loyal man.
“Easy to run?”