“I see she’s a Ford,” he said, “and Fords are a bit hard to start
sometimes, especially in cold weather. I’ll have a try.”
He went to the front of the car and seized the crank handle. He swung
it, jerked, it, pulled at it with his full strength. There was a slight
gurgling noise occasionally, but the engine refused to start. Geoffrey
stood erect and wiped his forehead. The evening was chilly, but he had
no reason to complain of being cold. The girl sat on her stone at the
side of the road and smoked a fresh cigarette.
“I don’t think you’ll do much good that way,” she said. “I’ve been at
that for hours.”
Geoffrey felt there was, or ought to be a difference between the efforts
of a girl, a slight, rather frail looking girl, and those of a vigorous
young man. He took off his overcoat and tried again, vainly. Then he
opened the throttle wide, and advanced the sparking lever a little.
“If you do that,” said the girl, “she’ll back-fire and break your
arm--that is to say if she does anything at all, which she probably
won’t. She sprained father’s wrist last week. That’s how I came to be
driving her to-day.”
Geoffrey was aware of the unpleasant effects of a back-fire. But he
took the risk without hesitating. Nothing happened. The car, though
obstinate, was not apparently malicious.
“There must be something wrong,” he said. “Did you try the sparking
plugs?”
“I had them all out,” said the girl, “and cleaned them with a hairpin
and my pocket handkerchief. It isn’t worth your while to take them out
again.”
Geoffrey fetched a wrench from his own car and began to work on the
sparking plugs.
“I see you don’t believe me,” said the girl. “But I really did clean
them. Just look.”
She held up her pocket handkerchief. It was thickly smeared with soot.
She had certainly cleaned something with it. Geoffrey worked away
steadily with his wrench.
“And the worst of it is,” said the girl, “that this is just the sort of
evening on which one simply must blow one’s nose. I’ve had to blow mine
twice since I cleaned the plugs and I expect its awful.”
Geoffrey looked up from his work. He had noticed when he first saw her
that her face was very dirty. He knew now where the dirt came from. He
smiled. The girl smiled, too. Her temper was beginning to improve. Then
she sniffed. Geoffrey offered her his pocket handkerchief. She took it
without saying thank you.
The sparking plugs were cleaned very carefully, for the second time.
Then Geoffrey took another turn at the crank handle. He laboured in
vain. The engine did not respond with so much as a gasp.
“The next thing I did,” said the girl, “was to take out the commutator
and clean it. But I don’t advise you to do that unless you really do
know something about engines.”
It was Geoffrey’s turn to feel a little irritated.
“I’m a competent mechanic,” he said shortly.
“All right,” said the girl, “don’t be angry. I’m a competent mechanic,
too. At least I thought I was before this happened.
“Perhaps,” said Geoffrey, “you didn’t put the commutator back right
after you took it out. I’ve known people make mistakes about that.”
His suspicion was unjust. The commutator was in its place and the wire
terminals correctly attached. He took it out again, cleaned it, oiled
it, and replaced it. Then he tried the crank handle again. The engine
was entirely unaffected.
“The feed pipe must be choked,” said Geoffrey decisively.
“I didn’t try that,” said the girl, “but you can if you like. I’ll lend
you a hairpin. The one I cleaned the plugs with must be lying about
somewhere.”
It was getting dark, and a search for a lost hairpin would be very
little use. Geoffrey said he would try blowing through the feed pipe
with the pump. The girl, coming to his assistance, struck matches and
held them dangerously near the carburetter while he worked. The clearing
of the feed pipe made no difference at all to the engine. It was quite
dark and freezing hard when the job was finished. Geoffrey, exhausted
and breathless, gave up his final attempt at the starting crank.
“Look here,” he said, “I’m awfully sorry; but I’ll have to chuck it.
I’ve tried everything I can think of. The only thing to do is to send
someone out from the nearest town. If I had a rope, I’d tow you in, but
I haven’t. Is there a motor man in Hamley?”
“Yes,” said the girl, “there’s a man called Jones, who does motors,
but----”
“Well,” said Geoffrey, “you get into my car. I’ll drive you home, and
then--by the way, where do you live?”
“In Hamley. My father’s the doctor there.”
“That’s all right. I’ll drive you home and send out Jones.”
“The worst of that is,” said the girl, “that Jones always charges the
most frightful sums for anything he does.”
“But you can’t stay here all night,” said Geoffrey. “All night! It’ll be
all day to-morrow too. As far as I can see it’ll be always. You’ll never
make that car go.”
“If father was in any ordinary temper,” said the girl, “he wouldn’t
grouse much about Jones’s bill. But just now, on account of what
happened to him----”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “I understand. The sprained wrist makes him
irritable.”
“It’s not exactly that,” said the girl. “Anyone might sprain a wrist.
There’s no disgrace about that. The real trouble is that the poor old
dear put some stuff on his wrist, to cure it, you know. It must have
been the wrong stuff, for it brought on erysipelas.”
“I thought you said he was a doctor.”
“That’s just it. He thinks that no one will believe in him any more
now that he’s doctored his own wrist all wrong. That’s what makes him
depressed. I told him not to mind; but he does.”
“The best doctors make mistakes sometimes,” said Geoffrey.
“Everybody does,” said the girl. “Even competent mechanics aren’t always
quite sure about things, are they? Now you see why I don’t want to send
out Jones if I can possibly help it.”
“But you can’t possibly help it,” said Geoffrey.
He wondered whether he could offer to pay Jones’ bill himself. It would
not, he supposed, be very large, and he would have been glad to pay it
to save the girl from trouble. But he did not like to make the offer.
“We might,” he said, “persuade Jones not; to send in his bill till your
father’s wrist is better. Anyhow, there’s nothing for it but to get him.
We’ll just push your car to the side of the road out of the way and then
I’ll run you into Hamley.”
The car was pushed well over to the side of the road, and left on a
patch of grass. Geoffrey shoved hard at the spokes of one of the back
wheels. The girl pushed, with one hand on a lamp bracket. She steered
with the other, and added a good deal to Geoffrey’s labour by turning
the wheel the wrong way occasionally.
The drive to Hamley did not take long; but it was nearly half-past six
before they reached the village street. Jones’s shop and motor garage
were shut up for the night; but a kindly bystander told Geoffrey where
the man lived. Unfortunately, the man was not at home. His wife, who
seemed somewhat aggrieved at his absence, gave it as her opinion that he
was likely to be found in the George Inn.
“But it isn’t no use your going there for him,” she said. “There’s a
Freemason’s dinner tonight, and Jones wouldn’t leave that, not if you
offered him a ten-pound note.”
Geoffrey turned to the girl.
“Shall we try?” he asked. “Is it worth while going after him?”
“I can’t leave the car on the side of the road all night,” she said. “If
we can’t get Jones, I must walk back and try again.”
Geoffrey made a heroic resolve.
“I’ll leave you at home first,” he said, “and then I’ll go and drag
Jones out of that dinner party of his. I’m sure you must be very tired.”
But the girl firmly refused to go home without the car. Her plan was to
go back with Jones, if Jones could be persuaded to start, and then drive
home when the car was set right.
“Very well,” said Geoffrey, “let’s go and get Jones. We’ll all go back
together. I can stop the night in Hamley and go on to-morrow morning.”
He rather expected a protest from the girl, a protest ending in warm
thanks for his kindness. He received instead a remark which rather
surprised him.
“I daresay,” she said, “that you’d rather like to see what really is
the matter with the car. It will he so much knowledge gained for you
afterwards. And you do take an interest in mechanics, don’t you?”
Geoffrey, in the course of his operations on the car, had several times
professed a deep interest in mechanics. He recollected that, just at
first, he had boasted a good deal about his skill and knowledge. He
suspected that the girl was laughing at him. This irritated him, and
when he reached the George Inn he was in no mood to listen patiently to
Jones’ refusal to leave the dinner.
Jones did refuse, firmly and decisively. Geoffrey argued with him,
attempted to bribe him, finally swore at him. The girl stood by and
laughed. Jones turned on her truculently.
“If young ladies,” he said, “would stay in their homes, which is the
proper place for them, and not go driving about in motor cars, there’d
be less trouble in the world; and decent men who work hard all day would
be left to eat their dinners in peace.”
The girl was entirely unabashed.
“If decent men,” she said, “would think more about their business and
less about their dinners, motors wouldn’t break down six miles from
home. You were supposed to have overhauled that car last week, Jones,
and you told father yourself that the engine was in first rate order.”
“No engine will go,” said Jones, “if you don’t know how to drive it.
“Look here,” said Geoffrey, “hop into my car. I’ll have you there in
less than half an hour. We’ll bring a rope with us, and if you can’t
make the car start at once, we’ll tow it home. It won’t be a long job.
I’ll undertake to have you back here in an hour. Your dinner won’t be
cold by that time.”
He took Jones by the arm and pulled him towards the door of the inn.
Jones, protesting and muttering, gave way at last. He fetched his hat
and coat, and took a seat in Geoffrey’s car.
Geoffrey made good his promise. Once clear of the town, with an empty
road before him, he drove fast and reached the scene of the breakdown in
less than twenty minutes.
Jones was evidently sulky. Without speaking a word to either Geoffrey
or the girl he went straight to the car at the side of the road. He gave
the starting handle a single turn. Then he stopped and went to the back
of the car. He took out a tin of petrol and emptied it into the tank.
Then he gave another jerk to the starting handle. The engine responded
at once with a cheerful rattle. The girl, to Geoffrey’s amazement,
laughed loud. He felt abashed and humiliated, very little inclined to
mirth.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he babbled his apologies. “I’m really awfully
sorry. It was extremely stupid of me, but I never thought----. Of course
I ought to have looked at the petrol tank first thing.”
“It was a bit stupid of you, I must say,” said the girl, “considering
what you said about understanding motors.”
Geoffrey felt inclined to remind her that she, too, had boasted some
knowledge of cars and that she had been at fault even more than he had,
and that in fact she ought to have guessed that her petrol had gone. He
was saved from making his retort by Jones. Ignoring the girl completely,
as if she were beneath contempt, Jones spoke to Geoffrey.
“I dunno,” he said, “how you expected the engine to work without
petrol.”
His tone was full of scorn, and Geoffrey felt like a withered flower.
The girl was in no way abashed.
“It’s just like asking a man to work without his dinner,” she said, “but
they sometimes do, you know.”
Then she turned to Geoffrey.
“If you promise faithfully,” she said, “not to tell father what
happened, you can come and have dinner with us to-night.”
It was the only sign of gratitude that the girl had shown, and
Geoffrey’s first inclination was to refuse the invitation definitely.
But he caught sight of her face before she spoke. She was standing in
the full glare of one of the lamps. Her eyes were twinkling and very
bright. On her lips was a smile, impudent, provocative, extremely
attractive.
Geoffrey Dane dined that night with the doctor and his daughter. He
described the breakdown of the motor in the vaguest terms.