"Trevington--up yonder--is a fairly isolated little dorp," I said, for I
was beginning to feel hungry.
"No," said Kysh. "He'd get a lift to the railway in no time.... Besides,
I'm enjoying myself.... Three pounds eighteen and sixpence. Infernal
swindle!"
I take it one of his more recent fines was rankling in Kysh's brain; but
he drove like the Archangel of the Twilight.
About the longitude of Cassocks, Hinchcliffe yawned. "Aren't we goin' to
maroon our Robert? I'm hungry, too."
"The commodore wants his money back," I answered.
"If he drives like this habitual, there must be a tidyish little lump
owin' to him," said Pyecroft. "Well, I'm agreeable."
"I didn't know it could be done. S'welp me, I didn't," our guest murmured.
"But you will," said Kysh. And that was the first and last time he
addressed the man.
We ran through Penfield Green, half stupefied with open air, drugged with
the relentless boom of the Octopod, and extinct with famine.
"I used to shoot about here," said Kysh, a few miles further on. "Open
that gate, please," and he slowed as the sun touched the sky-line. At this
point we left metalled roads and bucked vigorously amid ditches and under
trees for twenty minutes.
"Only cross-country car on the market," he said, as we wheeled into a
straw-yard where a lone bull bellowed defiance to our growlings. "Open
that gate, please. I hope the cattle-bridge will stand up.
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