My engineer grabbed the steering-bar just in time to save us lurching into a ditch.
"If I was a burnin’ peacock, with two hundred bloodshot eyes in my shinin’ tail, I’d need ’em all on this job!" said Hinch.
"Don’t talk! Steer! This ain’t the North Atlantic," Pyecroft replied.
"Blast my stokers! Why, the steam’s dropped fifty pounds!" Hinchcliffe cried.
"Fire’s blown out," said the engineer. "Stop her!’
"Does she do that often?" said Hinch, descending.
"Sometimes."
"Any time?"
"Any time a cross-wind catches her."
The engineer produced a match and stooped.
That car (now, thank Heaven, no more than an evil memory) never lit twice in the same fashion. This time she backfired superbly, and Pyecroft went out over the right rear wheel in a column of rich yellow flame.
"I’ve seen a mine explode at Bantry—once—prematoor," he volunteered.
"That’s all right," said Hinchcliffe, brushing down his singed beard with a singed forefinger. (He had been watching too closely.) "Has she any more little surprises up her dainty sleeve?"
"She hasn’t begun yet," said my engineer, with a scornful cough. "Some one ’as opened the petrol-supply-valve too wide."
"Change places with me, Pyecroft," I commanded, for I remembered that the petrol-supply,
