FullReads

It seemed to me that both our guest and his fellow-villain in uniform smiled as we fled down the road easterly betwixt the narrowing hedges.

“You’ll know all about it in a little time,” said our guest. “You’ve only yourselves to thank for runnin’ your ‘ead into a trap.” And he whistled ostentatiously.

We made no answer.

“If that man ‘ad chose, ‘e could have identified me,” he said.

Still we were silent.

“But ‘e’ll do it later, when you’re caught.”

“Not if you go on talking. ‘E won’t be able to,” said Pyecroft. “I don’t know what traverse you think you’re workin’, but your duty till you’re put in cells for a highway robber is to love, honour, an’ cherish me most special–performin’ all evolutions signalled in rapid time. I tell you this, in case o’ anything turnin’ up.”

“Don’t you fret about things turnin’ up,” was the reply.

Hinchcliffe had given the car a generous throttle, and she was well set to work, when, without warning, the road–there are two or three in Sussex like it–turned down and ceased.

“Holy Muckins!” he cried, and stood on both brakes as our helpless tyres slithered over wet grass and bracken–down and down into forest–early British woodland. It was the change of a nightmare, and that all should fit, fifty yards ahead of us a babbling brook barred our way. On the far side a velvet green ride, sprinkled with rabbits and fern, gently sloped upwards and away, but behind us was no hope. Forty horse-power would never have rolled wet pneumatic tyres up that verdurous cliff we had descended.

“H’m!” Our guest coughed significantly. “A great many cars thinks they can take this road; but they all come back. We walks after ’em at our convenience.”

“Meanin’ that the other jaunty is now pursuin’ us on his lily feet?” said Pyecroft.

“Precisely.”

“An’ you think,” said Pyecroft (I have no hope to render the scorn of the words), “that’ll make any odds? Get out!”

The man obeyed with alacrity.

“See those spars up-ended over there? I mean that wickyup-thing. Hop-poles, then, you rural blighter. Keep on fetching me hop-poles at the double.”

And he doubled, Pyecroft at his heels; for they had arrived at a perfect understanding.

There was a stack of hurdles a few yards down

stream, laid aside after sheep-washing; and there were stepping-stones in the brook. Hinchcliffe rearranged these last to make some sort of causeway; I brought up the hurdles; and when Pyecroft and his subaltern had dropped a dozen hop-poles across the stream, laid them down over all.

“Talk o’ the Agricultur’l Hall!” he said, mopping his brow–“’tisn’t in it with us. The approach to the bridge must now be paved with hurdles, owin’ to the squashy nature o’ the country. Yes, an’ we’d better have one or two on the far side to lead her on to terror fermior. Now, Hinch! Give her full steam and ‘op along. If she slips off, we’re done. Shall I take the wheel?”

“No. This is my job,” said the first-class engine-room artificer. “Get over the far side, and be ready to catch her if she jibs on the uphill.”

We crossed that elastic structure and stood ready amid the bracken. Hinchcliffe gave her a full steam and she came like a destroyer on her trial. There was a crack, a flicker of white water, and she was in our arms fifty yards up the slope; or rather, we were behind her, pushing her madly towards a patch of raw gravel whereon her wheels could bite. Of the bridge remained only a few wildly vibrating hop-poles, and those hurdles which had been sunk in the mud of the approaches.

“She–she kicked out all the loose ones behind her as she finished with ’em,” Hinchcliffe panted.

“At the Agricultural Hall they would ‘ave been fastened down with ribbons,” said Pyecroft. “But this ain’t Olympia.”

“She nearly wrenched the tiller out of my hand. Don’t you think I conned her like a cock-angel, Pye?”