Hastily rising I ran down into the street and found a pair of legs performing strange antics on the kerbstone, while their owner’s head appeared to be in the petrol tank, at least a voice from that direction declared ‘the whole of the ---- ---- petrol has gone and (adjectived) itself away.’ This edifying remark was accompanied by a series of alarming though apparently harmless reports which did not in the least affect the equanimity of the person under the car. By this time Freddy, having consumed ‘kidneys and bacon for three,’ appeared in the doorway, disguised in a mangy fur coat and a pair of hideous black goggles. He straightway proceeded to haul the unknown out of the petrol tank by his legs, at the same time enquiring with unnecessary heat ‘Why they had not pumped that mess in at the shop?’ To which query the Chauffeur replied that ‘They never did nothink at the shop.’ This answer appeared to satisfy Frederick, who boarded the smell-cart without further parley, and, having seated the Chauffeur behind, pounced upon a sort of lever arrangement, whereupon the car gave two awesome leaps, I jumped aboard, and we found ourselves at some distance from the house. The Pilot, who appeared in a dressing-gown at the top window, bestowed a pantomimic blessing on us as we shot away, followed by the ironical cheers of two small boys and the Swithin’s Hall man from next door, who had kept an early chapel and was accordingly most obnoxious. We had scarcely passed Magdalen when Freddy informed me in a hurried gasp that we were bound for London, which communication constrained me to remind him that our joint capital only amounted to thirteen and six, but he merely muttered something unprintable and put on full speed. We narrowly missed a milkman in Iffley Road and an early bicyclist only just escaped an equally early death. It was at this point that P.C. Robert Swiller hove in sight; we only noticed a red and angry face but failed to catch his remarks, which, to judge from the way he stamped on the pavement, must have been of a forcible nature. I think that after this I must have dozed--the Swithin’s Hall man plays till 1.30 a.m.--for the next thing I remember was a violent concussion which threw a heavy oil-can on to my foot and the Chauffeur into the ditch. Freddy, whose ordinary conversation is sprinkled with epithets that do not bear repetition, referred to the ancient rustic whose hay-cart we had shattered, as ‘a d--d old crawler,’ and added insult to injury by enquiring why his rotten hearse was in the middle of the road. On the yokel pointing out that our car was in fact in that position, and that his cart was almost in the ditch, Freddy repeated his former statement and seemed to think that that closed the discussion. Not so the rustic, who showed an aggressive desire for compensation, which was only appeased by Freddy generously presenting him with my card and remarking that I would see he was paid.