"Sound the horn then, if you won't let me push," she said.
"Hell! Be quiet a moment!"
She was quiet a moment: he made shattering efforts with the little motor.
"You'll only break the thing down altogether, Clifford," she remonstrated; "besides wasting your nervous energy."
"If I could only get out and look at the damned thing!" he said, exasperated. And he sounded the horn stridently. "Perhaps Mellors can see what's wrong."
They waited, among the mashed flowers under a sky softly curdling with cloud. In the silence a wood-pigeon began to coo, roo-hoo hoo! roo-hoo hoo! Clifford shut her up with a blast on the horn.
The keeper appeared directly, striding inquiringly round the corner. He saluted.
"Do you know anything about motors?" asked Clifford sharply.
"I am afraid I don't. Has she gone wrong?"
"Apparently!" snapped Clifford.
The man crouched solicitously by the wheel, and peered at the little engine.
"I'm afraid I know nothing at all about these mechanical things, Sir Clifford," he said calmly. "If she has enough petrol and oil—"
"Just look carefully and see if you can see anything broken," snapped Clifford.
The man laid his gun against a tree, took off his coat and threw it beside it. The brown dog sat guard. Then he sat down on his heels and peered under the chair, poking with his finger at the greasy little engine, and resenting the grease-marks on his clean Sunday shirt.
"Doesn't seem anything broken," he said. And he stood up, pushing back his hat from his forehead, rubbing his brow and apparently studying.
"Have you looked at the rods underneath?" asked Clifford. "See if they are all right!"
The man lay flat on his stomach on the floor, his neck pressed back, wriggling under the engine and poking with his finger. Connie thought what a pathetic sort of thing a man was, feeble and small-looking, when he was lying on his belly on the big earth.
"Seems all right as far as I can see," came his muffled voice.
