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"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!"
I'll change places with the other one. Only be quick; I want to pay my fine and get it over." "That's the way to look at it," he said, dropping into the left rear seat. "We're making quite a lot out o' you motor gentry." He folded his arms judicially as the car gathered way under Hinchcliffe's stealthy hand. "But you aren't driving?" he cried, half rising.
Tenison spoke slowly and impressively: "Tell Laramie," he said, "I copper all that stuff every bit of it. Tell him to look out. I don't know what them fellows have got in their heads; but it's something. Van Horn won't be in jail long." "He's out again now." Tenison eyed his messenger steadily: "What do you mean?" "I just come from Hinchcliffe's saloon. They've been out an hour."
The hardly-checked fury on Hinchcliffe's brow had given place to a greasy imbecility, and he nodded over the steering-bar. In longs and shorts, as laid down by the pious and immortal Mr. Morse, Pyecroft tapped out, "Sham drunk. Get him in the car." "I can't stay here all day," said the constable. Pyecroft raised his head.
Even now I can at will recall every tone and gesture, with each dissolving picture inboard or overside Hinchcliffe's white arm buried to the shoulder in a hornet's nest of spinning machinery; Moorshed's halt and jerk to windward as he looked across the water; Pyecroft's back bent over the Berthon collapsible boat, while he drilled three men in expanding it swiftly; the outflung white water at the foot of a homeward-bound Chinaman not a hundred yards away, and her shadow-slashed, rope-purfled sails bulging sideways like insolent cheeks; the ribbed and pitted coal-dust on our decks, all iridescent under the sun; the first filmy haze that paled the shadows of our funnels about lunch time; the gradual die-down and dulling over of the short, cheery seas; the sea that changed to a swell: the swell that crumbled up and ran allwhither oilily: the triumphant, almost audible roll inward of wandering fog-walls that had been stalking us for two hours, and welt upon welt, chill as the grave the drive of the interminable main fog of the Atlantic.
"He's bung in the fairway. How'm I to get past?" said Hinchcliffe. "There's no room. Here, Pye, come and relieve the wheel!" "Nay, nay, Pauline. You've made your own bed. You've as good as left your happy home an' family cart to steal it. Now you lie on it." "Ring your bell," I suggested. "Glory!" said Pyecroft, falling forward into the nape of Hinchcliffe's neck as the car stopped dead.
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