“Apparently ’e don’t,” said Pyecroft. “What’s he done now, Sir?” “Reversed her. I’ve done it myself.” “But he’s an engineer.” For the third time the car manœuvred up the hill. “I’ll teach you to come alongside properly, if I keep you ’tiffies out all night!” shouted Pyecroft. It was evidently a quotation. Hinchcliffe’s face grew livid, and, his hand ever so slightly working on the throttle, the car buzzed twenty yards uphill. “That’s enough. We’ll take your word for it. The mountain will go to Ma’ommed. Stand _fast_!” Pyecroft and I and the rug marched up where she and Hinchcliffe fumed together. “Not as easy as it looks—eh, Hinch?” “It is dead easy. I’m going to drive her to Instead Wick—aren’t I?” said the first-class engine-room artificer. I thought of his performances with No. 267 and nodded. After all, it was a small privilege to accord to pure genius. “But my engineer will stand by—at first,” I added. “An’ you a family man, too,” muttered Pyecroft, swinging himself into the right rear seat. “Sure to be a remarkably hectic day when we meet.” We adjusted ourselves and, in the language of the immortal Navy doctor, paved our way towards Linghurst, distant by mile-post 11-3/4 miles. Mr. Hinchcliffe, every nerve and muscle braced, talked only to the engineer, and that professionally. I recalled the time when I, too, had enjoyed the rack on which he voluntarily extended himself. And the County of Sussex slid by in slow time. “How cautious is the ’tiffy-bird!” said Pyecroft. “Even in a destroyer,” Hinch snapped over his shoulder, “you ain’t expected to con and drive simultaneous. Don’t address any remarks to _me!_” “Pump!” said the engineer. “Your water’s droppin’.” “_I_ know that. Where the Heavens is that blighted by-pass?” He beat his right or throttle hand madly on the side of the car till he found the bent rod that more or less controls the pump, and, neglecting all else, twisted it furiously. My engineer grabbed the steering-bar just in time to save us lurching into a ditch. “If I was a burnin’ peacock, with two hundred bloodshot eyes in my shinin’ tail, I’d need ’em all on this job!” said Hinch. “Don’t talk! Steer! This ain’t the North Atlantic,” Pyecroft replied. “Blast my stokers! Why, the steam’s dropped fifty pounds!” Hinchcliffe cried. “Fire’s blown out,” said the engineer. “Stop her!” “Does she do that often?” said Hinch, descending. “Sometimes.” “Anytime?” “Any time a cross-wind catches her.” The engineer produced a match and stooped. That car (now, thank Heaven, no more than an evil memory) never lit twice in the same fashion. This time she back-fired superbly, and Pyecroft went out over the right rear wheel in a column of rich yellow flame. “I’ve seen a mine explode at Bantry—once—prematoor,” he volunteered. “That’s all right,” said Hinchcliffe, brushing down his singed beard with a singed forefinger. (He had been watching too closely.) “Has she any more little surprises up her dainty sleeve?”