Mr. Hinchcliffe, every nerve and muscle braced, talked only to the
engineer, and that professionally. I recalled the time when I, too, had
enjoyed the rack on which he voluntarily extended himself.
And the County of Sussex slid by in slow time.
"How cautious is the 'tiffy-bird!" said Pyecroft.
"Even in a destroyer," Hinch snapped over his shoulder, "you ain't
expected to con and drive simultaneous. Don't address any remarks to
_me!_"
"Pump!" said the engineer. "Your water's droppin'."
"_I_ know that. Where the Heavens is that blighted by-pass?"
He beat his right or throttle hand madly on the side of the car till he
found the bent rod that more or less controls the pump, and, neglecting
all else, twisted it furiously.
My engineer grabbed the steering-bar just in time to save us lurching into
a ditch.
"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.
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