“There’s some wakes would break a snake’s back; but this of yours, so to speak, would fair turn a tapeworm giddy. That’s all I wish to observe, Hinch. … Cart at anchor on the port-bow. It’s Agg!”
Far up the shaded road into secluded Bromlingleigh we saw the carrier’s cart at rest before the post-office.
“He’s bung in the fairway. How’m I to get past?” said Hinchcliffe. “There’s no room. Here, Pye, come and relieve the wheel!”
“Nay, nay, Pauline. You’ve made your own bed. You’ve as good as left your happy home an’ family cart to steal it. Now you lie on it.”
“Ring your bell,” I suggested.
“Glory!” said Pyecroft, falling forward into the nape of Hinchcliffe’s neck as the car stopped dead.
“Get out o’ my back-hair! That must have been the brake I touched off,” Hinchcliffe muttered, and repaired his error tumultuously.
We passed the cart as though we had been all Bruges belfry. Agg, from the port-office door, regarded us with a too pacific eye. I remembered later that the pretty postmistress looked on us pityingly.
Hinchcliffe wiped the sweat from his brow and drew breath. It was the first vehicle that he had passed, and I sympathised with him.
“You needn’t grip so hard,” said my engineer. “She steers as easy as a bicycle.”