“Ten or twelve years,” I said.
“Had many accidents?”
“None. And you?”
He stared.
“Let me give you a tip,” he said. “When you’re driving a car, don’t
stick too close to your rights. It’s not much good to be able to shout
‘You’re wrong’ when they’re pickin’ what’s left of the wind screen out
of your brain.”
“That’s a true enough saying,” said I, “and here’s another. If you shout
for trouble, don’t squeal when your prayer is heard,” and, with that, I
took out tobacco and started to fill a pipe.
For a moment he looked like thunder. Then he flung out a laugh.
“I see you’re one of the Die-Hards. I confess I never drive with a Bible
under my arm. But there you are.” He rose and peered at the ditch.
“Another two inches of your precious slice of the way, and I should have
been all right.”
“Four,” said I, and pointed to a scar in the road. “That was your safety
crease. With a wheel on that, I knew you were bound to go.”
Perowne stared at the scar. It might have been cut with a punch. As a
matter of fact, it had. Presently he looked at me. I pressed my tobacco
home and stared at the sky.
Perowne got out of his car and looked at her tracks. Then he picked up a
stick and did some measuring. . . .
“You’re right,” said he. “Right to an eighth of an inch.”
“I know,” said I. “I measured your car last night.”
For a moment he never moved. Then he took out cigarettes, lighted one
carefully and leaned against the door with a foot on the step.
“So I was wrong,” he said softly. “You do know how to drive.”