"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 engineroom 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 11¾ 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.
