"There's a bit of good going hereabouts."
He flung a careless knee over the low raking tiller that the ordinary
expert puts under his armpit, and down four miles of yellow road, cut
through barren waste, the Octopod sang like a six-inch shell.
"Whew! But you know your job," said Hinchcliffe. "You're wasted here. I'd
give something to have you in my engine-room."
"He's steering with 'is little hind-legs," said Pyecroft. "Stand up and
look at him, Robert. You'll never see such a sight again!"
"Nor don't want to," was our guest's reply. "Five 'undred pounds wouldn't
begin to cover 'is fines even since I've been with him."
Park Row is reached by one hill which drops three hundred feet in half a
mile. Kysh had the thought to steer with his hand down the abyss, but the
manner in which he took the curved bridge at the bottom brought my few
remaining hairs much nearer the grave.
"We're in Surrey now; better look out," I said.
"Never mind. I'll roll her into Kent for a bit. We've lots of time; it's
only three o'clock."
"Won't you want to fill your bunkers, or take water, or oil her up?" said
Hinchcliffe.
"We don't use water, and she's good for two hundred on one tank o' petrol
if she doesn't break down."
"Two hundred miles from 'ome and mother _and_ faithful Fido to-night,
Robert," said Pyecroft, slapping our guest on the knee. "Cheer up! Why,
I've known a destroyer do less.
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