“Apparently ’e don’t,” said Pyecroft. “What’s he done now, Sir?”
“Reversed her. I’ve done it myself.”
“But he’s an engineer.”
For the third time the car manœuvred up the hill.
“I’ll teach you to come alongside properly, if I keep you ’tiffies out all night!” shouted Pyecroft. It was evidently a quotation. Hinchcliffe’s face grew livid, and, his hand ever so slightly working on the throttle, the car buzzed twenty yards uphill.
“That’s enough. We’ll take your word for it. The mountain will go to Ma’ommed. Stand fast!”
Pyecroft and I and the rug marched up where she and Hinchcliffe fumed together.
“Not as easy as it looks—eh, Hinch?”
“It is dead easy. I’m going to drive her to Instead Wick—aren’t I?” said the first-class engine-room artificer. I thought of his performances with No. 267 and nodded. After all, it was a small privilege to accord to pure genius.
“But my engineer will stand by—at first,” I added.