"You be quiet!" cried Hinchcliffe, and drew up opposite the rug, his dark face shining with joy. "She’s the Poetry o’ Motion! She’s the Angel’s Dream. She’s——" He shut off steam, and the slope being against her, the car slid soberly downhill again.
"What’s this? I’ve got the brake on!" he yelled.
"It doesn’t hold backwards," I said. "Put her on the mid-link."
"That’s a nasty one for the chief engineer o’ the Djinn, 31-knot T.B.D.," said Pyecroft. "Do you know what the mid-link is, Hinch?"
Once more the car returned to us; but as Pyecroft stooped to gather up the rug, Hinchcliffe jerked the lever testily, and with prawn-like speed she retired backwards into her own steam.
"Apparently ’e don’t," said Pyecroft. "What’s he done now, Sir?"
"Reversed her. I’ve done it myself."
"But he’s an engineer."
For the third time the car manoeuvred up the hill.
"I’ll teach you to come alongside properly, if I keep you tiffies out all night!" shouted Pyecroft. It was evidently a quotation. Hinchcliffe’s face grew livid, and, his hand ever so slightly working on the throttle, the car buzzed twenty yards uphill.
"That’s enough. We’ll take your word for it. The mountain will go to Ma’ommed. Stand fast!"
Pyecroft and I and the rug marched up where she and Hinchcliffe fumed together.
