I tell you
this, in case o' anything turnin' up."
"Don't you fret about things turnin' up," was the reply.
Hinchcliffe had given the car a generous throttle, and she was well set to
work, when, without warning, the road--there are two or three in Sussex
like it--turned down and ceased.
"Holy Muckins!" he cried, and stood on both brakes as our helpless tyres
slithered over wet grass and bracken--down and down into forest--early
British woodland. It was the change of a nightmare, and that all should
fit, fifty yards ahead of us a babbling brook barred our way. On the far
side a velvet green ride, sprinkled with rabbits and fern, gently sloped
upwards and away, but behind us was no hope. Forty horse-power would never
have rolled wet pneumatic tyres up that verdurous cliff we had descended.
"H'm!" Our guest coughed significantly. "A great many cars thinks they can
take this road; but they all come back. We walks after 'em at our
convenience."
"Meanin' that the other jaunty is now pursuin' us on his lily feet?" said
Pyecroft.
"_Pre_cisely."
"An' you think," said Pyecroft (I have no hope to render the scorn of the
words), "_that'll_ make any odds? Get out!"
The man obeyed with alacrity.
"See those spars up-ended over there? I mean that wickyup-thing.
Hop-poles, then, you rural blighter. Keep on fetching me hop-poles at the
double."
And he doubled, Pyecroft at his heels; for they had arrived at a perfect
understanding.
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