I said sharply, for I thought it possible we might have a struggle.
In Wellington Street, Driver, who had been gurgling, chuckling and nodding, suddenly began to sing a Wapshot hymn. It ran:
"The souls in torment wish that they
Had Whole-Hog Wapshots been;
Then would they not have wailing gazed
Upon that dreadful scene."
He sang two verses with spirit and half a third, but that was incoherent. Then he fell back limp and snoring.
We ran up Southampton Bow into Seymour Street, and so to Camden Town, then through St. John's Wood into Maida Vale, and turned up to Kilburn. In Maida Vale we stopped, put on our motor-coats, and I saw to it that Angel was warmly wrapped up. Then I said to Chelubai: "I'm horribly cramped. Let's shove the subscriber under our feet."
We did, and he snored away peacefully.
Seeing that the night was dark, and we had our valuable lump of Finance and a lady on board, Bottiger was content to go at a moderate speed, so that it was a quarter to eleven when we reached his cottage in Hertfordshire, which we use for week-ends in summer and partridge-shooting in their season.
