Our guest's face blanched,
and he clutched the back of the tonneau.
"New commander's evidently been trained on a destroyer," said Hinchcliffe.
"What's 'is wonderful name?" whispered Pyecroft. "Ho! Well, I'm glad it
ain't Saul we've run up against--nor Nimshi, for that matter. This is
makin' me feel religious."
Our impetus carried us half-way up the next slope, where we steadied to a
resonant fifteen an hour against the collar.
"What do you think?" I called to Hinchcliffe.
"'Taint as sweet as steam, o' course; but for power it's twice the
_Furious_ against half the _Jaseur_ in a head-sea."
Volumes could not have touched it more exactly. His bright eyes were glued
on Kysh's hands juggling with levers behind the discreet backward sloping
dash.
"An' what sort of a brake might you use?" he said politely.
"This," Kysh replied, as the last of the hill shot up to one in eight. He
let the car run back a few feet and caught her deftly on the brake,
repeating the performance cup and ball fashion. It was like being daped
above the Pit at the end of an uncoiled solar plexus. Even Pyecroft held
his breath.
"It ain't fair! It ain't fair!" our guest moaned. "You're makin' me sick."
"What an ungrateful blighter he is!" said Pyecroft. "Money couldn't buy
you a run like this ... Do it well overboard!"
"We'll just trundle up the Forest and drop into the Park Row, I think,"
said Kysh.
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