"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."
"Ho! You suppose I ride bicycles up an' down my engine-room?" was the
answer. "I've other things to think about. She's a terror. She's a
whistlin' lunatic. I'd sooner run the old South-Easter at Simon's Town
than her!"
"One of the nice things they say about her," I interrupted, "is that no
engineer is needed to run this machine."
"No. They'd need about seven."
"'Common-sense only is needed,'" I quoted.
"Make a note of that, Hinch.
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