“The petrol will light up and the boiler may blow up.”
“How rambunkshus! And”—Pyecroft blew a slow cloud—“Agg’s about three hoops up this mornin’, too.”
“What’s that to do with us? He’s gone down the road,” I retorted.
“Ye—es, but we’ll overtake him. He’s a vindictive carrier. He and Hinch ’ad words about pig-breeding this morning. O’ course, Hinch don’t know the elements o’ that evolution; but he fell back on ’is naval rank an’ office, an’ Agg grew peevish. I wasn’t sorry to get out of the cart … Have you ever considered how, when you an’ I meet, so to say, there’s nearly always a remarkable hectic day ahead of us! Hullo! Behold the beef-boat returnin’!”
He rose as the car climbed up the slope, and shouted: “In bow! Way ’nuff!”
“You be quiet!” cried Hinchcliffe, and drew up opposite the rug, his dark face shining with joy. “She’s the Poetry o’ Motion! She’s the Angel’s Dream. She’s———” He shut off steam, and the slope being against her, the car slid soberly downhill again.
“What’s this? I’ve got the brake on!” he yelled.
“It doesn’t hold backwards,” I said. “Put her on the mid-link.”
“That’s a nasty one for the chief engineer o’ the Djinn, 31-knot, T.B.D.,” said Pyecroft. “Do you know what the mid-link is, Hinch?”
Once more the car returned to us; but as Pyecroft stooped to gather up the rug, Hinchcliffe jerked the lever testily, and with prawn-like speed she retired backwards into her own steam.