“If I was a burnin’ peacock, with two hundred bloodshot eyes in my shinin’ tail, I’d need ’em all on this job!” said Hinch.
“Don’t talk! Steer! This ain’t the North Atlantic,” Pyecroft replied.
“Blast my stokers! Why, the steam’s dropped fifty pounds!” Hinchcliffe cried.
“Fire’s blown out,” said the engineer. “Stop her!”
“Does she do that often?” said Hinch, descending.
“Sometimes.”
“Anytime?”
“Any time a cross-wind catches her.”
The engineer produced a match and stooped.
That car (now, thank Heaven, no more than an evil memory) never lit twice in the same fashion. This time she back-fired superbly, and Pyecroft went out over the right rear wheel in a column of rich yellow flame.