Part 17 (1/2)

”I hereby confound it!” said his companion with grim solemnity. ”I'll do anything you like, provided you don't ask me to evacuate this luxurious cus.h.i.+on and push.”

”Now if I had my chauffeur here----” began the General, then, realizing that his duty to his country had necessitated the release of the man for military service, he held his peace on that point, only to break out in another direction.

”It's that horrible concoction that is sold as petrol,” he remarked with an air of profound wisdom. ”Sixty per cent paraffin and ten per cent water. Nine o'clock in the evening, miles from anywhere, and the idiotic car as obstinate as a mule.”

d.i.c.k's father, enjoying a hard-earned fortnight's leave after a strenuous time at the front, had performed what he would have considered a desperate task in pre-war days. He had actually driven his own motor--a twenty-horse-power touring-car--from Shrops.h.i.+re to Southampton.

Luck, in the shape of complete immunity from tyre troubles and the two thousand odd things that might go wrong with a car, had hitherto favoured him. Whereat he became conceited with his powers as a motorist; but it was pride before a fall, and Major-General Crosthwaite found himself stranded with his three companions somewhere in the vicinity of the little Wilts.h.i.+re town of Malmesbury.

The eldest of the three pa.s.sengers was Admiral Trefusis Sefton, K.C.B.

(retired), whose son Jack was at that very moment engaged upon his desperate venture of bringing the crippled _Calder_ across the North Sea. Residing near Southampton, he had accepted Crosthwaite Senior's invitation to spend a long week-end at the latter's house near Bridgnorth, and the Major-General thought it was a good opportunity for having a motor-tour by fetching his guest from the south of England.

”I'll take young George with me,” wrote the Major-General, ”and there will be room in the car for Leslie. They can't get into worse mischief than if they were left at home, and one will be company for the other.”

So George Crosthwaite accompanied his father from Bridgnorth to Southampton. Shrewdly the fifteen-year old lad suspected that the primary object of his sire was to let his son see what an expert driver Crosthwaite Senior had become.

Leslie Sefton, also aged fifteen, jumped at the invitation, and, in spite of various and oft-repeated warnings from his parent not to skylark, his exuberant spirits formed a sympathetic counterpart to those of young George Crosthwaite.

Declining his son's offer of expert advice and a.s.sistance, the general divested himself of his coat, rolled up his s.h.i.+rt sleeves, inserted his monocle in his eye, and spent four precious minutes in deep contemplation of the stationary car. Then he applied rudimentary tests to half a dozen different parts without locating the trouble, while the admiral placidly smoked a choice cigar and meditated upon the pleasing fact that he had never succ.u.mbed to the motor craze.

George and Leslie, seated on a bank by the roadside, were discussing the merits and demerits of various types of aeroplanes when the former's parent interrupted the pleasant discussion.

”George.”

”Sir?”

”I want you to go into Malmesbury and get them to send a car to tow us in.”

Young Crosthwaite, unlike either of the two sons in the parable, prepared to obey. ”Obey orders at the double” had been dinned into his head from time immemorial. On one occasion when the colonel--as he was then--was entertaining a high War Office official, George, in his alacrity to carry out his parent's behests, collided with the portly butler bearing a heavily-laden tray. But the culprit's plea that he was fulfilling the oft-reiterated order calmed the colonel's inward wrath (he dared not ”let himself go” just then) and earned a substantial tip from the highly-amused guest.

”Coming?” asked George laconically, addressing his chum.

”Rather,” was the reply.

George threw his greatcoat into the car. As he did so, his sharp eyes caught sight of a tap that was turned off when it should have been turned on.

Deftly he depressed the little lever, and, somewhat to his parent's surprise, ”tickled” the carburetter.

”It's no use doing that,” said the discomfited motorist. ”Hurry up and be off. We'll be stranded here all night if you don't bestir yourself.”

Crosthwaite Senior's astonishment increased when the dutiful George climbed into the car and released the self-starter. The motor fired without a hitch.

”By Jove!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed George's parent, too delighted to think of thanking his son. ”However did you manage it?”

”Only turned the petrol on,” replied George calmly.

”Have you been playing any tricks----?” began the general, then resolved to repeat the question at a more favourable private opportunity. ”Jump in, Sefton; we've wasted an hour already. Might have been in Gloucester by this time. 'Fraid we'd better put up in Malmesbury to-night.”

On the lowest gear, the car crawled slowly up the stiff gradient leading to the little town, and pulled up outside an ivy-clad inn within a stone's throw of the imposing ruins of the abbey.

”Any news to-night, I wonder?” enquired the general as the four sat down to a substantial supper. ”Suppose there's no chance of a late paper in this out-of-the-way spot?”

”'Fraid not,” replied the admiral. ”You see, it is on a branch line.