"This," said Pyecroft, driving an elbow back into the deep verdure of the hedge-foot, "is a little bit of all right. Hinch, I shouldn’t let too much o’ that hot muckings drop in my eyes. Your leaf’s up in a fortnight, an’ you’ll be wantin’ ’em."
"Here!’ said Hinchcliffe, still on his back, to the engineer. "Come here and show me the lead of this pipe." And the engineer lay down beside him.
"That’s all right," said Mr. Hinchcliffe, rising. "But she’s more of a bag of tricks than I thought. Unship this superstructure aft"—he pointed to the back seat—"and I’ll have a look at the forced draught."
The engineer obeyed with alacrity. I heard him volunteer the fact that he had a brother an artificer in the Navy.
"They couple very well, those two," said Pyecroft critically, while Hinchcliffe sniffed round the asbestos-lagged boiler and turned on gay jets of steam.
"Now take me up the road," he said. My man, for form’s sake, looked at me.
"Yes, take him," I said. "He’s all right."
"No, I’m not," said Hinchcliffe of a sudden—"not if I’m expected to judge my water out of a little shaving-glass."
The water-gauge of that steam-car was reflected on a mirror to the right of the dashboard. I also had found it inconvenient.
"Throw up your arm and look at the gauge under your armpit. Only mind how you steer
