"
We passed with some decency through some towns, till by way of the
Hastings road we whirled into Cramberhurst, which is a deep pit.
"Now," said Kysh, "we begin."
"Previous service not reckoned towards pension," said Pyecroft. "We are
doin' you lavish, Robert."
"But when's this silly game to finish, any'ow?" our guest snarled.
"Don't worry about the _when_ of it, Robert. The _where's_ the interestin'
point for you just now."
I had seen Kysh drive before, and I thought I knew the Octopod, but that
afternoon he and she were exalted beyond my knowledge. He improvised on
the keys--the snapping levers and quivering accelerators--marvellous
variations, so that our progress was sometimes a fugue and sometimes a
barn-dance, varied on open greens by the weaving of fairy rings. When I
protested, all that he would say was: "I'll hypnotise the fowl! I'll
dazzle the rooster!" or other words equally futile. And she--oh! that I
could do her justice!--she turned her broad black bows to the westering
light, and lifted us high upon hills that we might see and rejoice with
her. She whooped into veiled hollows of elm and Sussex oak; she devoured
infinite perspectives of park palings; she surged through forgotten
hamlets, whose single streets gave back, reduplicated, the clatter of her
exhaust, and, tireless, she repeated the motions. Over naked uplands she
droned like a homing bee, her shadow lengthening in the sun that she
chased to his lair.
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