A bluish and silent beast of the true old sheep-dog breed glided from behind an outhouse and without words fell to work.
Pyecroft kept him at bay with a rake-handle while our party, in rallying-square, retired along the box-bordered brick-path to the car.
At the garden gate the dumb devil halted, looked back on the child, and sat down to scratch.
“That’s his three-mile limit, thank Heaven!” said Pyecroft. “Fall in, push-party, and proceed with land-transport o’ pinnace. I’ll protect your flanks in case this sniffin’ flea-bag is tempted beyond ’is strength.”
We pushed off in silence. The car weighed 1,200 lb., and even on ball-bearings was a powerful sudorific. From somewhere behind a hedge we heard a gross rustic laugh.
“Those are the beggars we lie awake for, patrollin’ the high seas. There ain’t a port in China where we wouldn’t be better treated. Yes, a Boxer ’ud be ashamed of it,” said Pyecroft.
A cloud of fine dust boomed down the road.
“Some happy craft with a well-found engine-room! How different!” panted Hinchcliffe, bent over the starboard mudguard.
It was a claret-coloured petrol car, and it stopped courteously, as good cars will at sight of trouble.
“Water, only water,” I answered in reply to offers of help.