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.
"There's a lodge at the end of these oak palings. They'll give you all you
want. Say I sent you. Gregory--Michael Gregory. Good-bye!"
"Ought to 'ave been in the Service. Prob'ly is," was Pyecroft's comment.
At that thrice-blessed lodge our water-tank was filled (I dare not quote
Mr. Hinchcliffe's remarks when he saw the collapsible rubber bucket with
which we did it) and we re-embarked.
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