FullReads

This time the sliding was done in an overcoat (although the summer sun was blazing), a steamer cap, and a pair of goggles. First there came a shivery chuggetty-chug, as if the beast was shaking himself loose. Next a noise like the opening of a bolt in an iron cage, and then the Inn of William the Conqueror–the village-beach, inlet–wide sea, streamed behind like a panorama run at high pressure.

The first swoop was along the sea, a whirl into Houlgate, a mad dash through the village, dogs and chickens running for dear life, and out again with the deadly rush of a belated wild goose hurrying to a southern clime. Our host sat beside the chauffeur, who looked like the demon in a ballet in his goggles and skull-cap. The Man from the Quarter and I crouched on the rear seats, our eyes on the turn of the road ahead. What we had left behind, or what might be on either side of us was of no moment; what would come around that far-distant curve a mile away and a minute off was what troubled us. The demon and the Sculptor were as cool as the captain and first mate on the bridge of a liner in a gale; the Man from the Quarter stared doggedly ahead; I was too scared for scenery and too proud to ask the Sculptor to slow down, so I thought of my sins and slowly murmured, “Now I lay me.”

When we got to the top of the last hill and had swirled into the straight broad turnpike leading to Lisieux, the Sculptor spoke in an undertone to the demon, did something with his foot or hand or teeth–everything with which he could push, pull, or bite was busy–and the machine, as if struck by a lash, sprang into space. Trees, fences, little farmhouses, hay-stacks, canvas-covered wagons, frightened children, dogs, now went by in blurred outlines; ten miles, thirty miles, then a string of villages, Liseau among them, the siren shrieking like a lost soul sinking into perdition.

“Watch the road to the right,” wheezed the Sculptor between his breaths; “that is where the Egyptian prince was killed–” this over his shoulder to me–“a tram-car hit him–you can see the hole in the bank. Made that last mile in sixty-five seconds–running fifty-nine now–look out for that cross-road–‘Wow-wow-oo–wow-wow'” (siren). “Damn that market cart–‘Wow-wow-o-o-wow.'” “Slow up, or we’ll be on top of that donkey–just grazed it. Can’t tell what a donkey will do when a girl’s driving it.” ‘Wow-oo-w-o–.’

Up a long hill now, down into a valley–the road like a piece of white tape stretching ahead–past school-houses, barns, market gardens; into dense woods, out on to level plains bare of a tree–one mad, devilish, brutal rush, with every man’s eyes glued to the turn of the road ahead, which every half minute swerved, straightened, swerved again; now blocked by trees, now opening out, only to close, twist, and squirm anew. Great fun this, gambling with death, knowing that from behind any bush, beyond every hill crest, and around each curve there may spring something that will make assorted junk of your machine and send you to Ballyhack!

“Only one more hill,” breathed the Sculptor, wiping the caked dust from his lips. Woo-oo-wow-o-o (nurse with a baby-carriage this time, running into the bushes like a frightened rabbit). “See the mill stream–that’s it flashing in the sunlight! See the roof of the mill? That’s Aston Knight’s! Down brakes! All out–fifty-six miles in one hour and twenty-two minutes! Not bad!”

I sprang out–so did the Man from the Quarter–the flash from the mill stream glistening in the sunlight had set his blood to tingling; as for myself, no sheltering doorway had ever looked so inviting.

“Marie! Marie! Where’s monsieur?” cried out the Sculptor from his seat beside the demon.

“Up-stairs, I think,” answered a stout, gray-haired, rosy-cheeked woman, wiping her hand and arms on her apron as she spoke. She had started on a run from the brook’s edge behind the house, where she had been washing, when she heard the shriek of the siren, but the machine had pulled up before she could reach the door-step.