When Miss Ropes asked at breakfast how many of us would like to watch
the very last cricket-match of the season at Lumsdale, practically the
entire hospital held up its hand, and it was found that the two cars
could not accommodate us all. It was therefore settled that Haynes (who
said he knew the moves) should drive Ansell and me over in the
governess-cart.
It was also settled that the crew of the governess-cart should have an
early cold lunch and start an hour before the cars; thus (it was
calculated) we should all arrive at the cricket-ground fairly well
together. This did not take Haynes' driving into account. We started
from the door at a very satisfactory pace, probably because Bucephalus,
the fat pony, objected to the enthusiasm of our send-off. When we
reached the road he dropped into an amble so gentle that we decided that
he had really been running away in the drive. Next, taking advantage of
an almost imperceptible upward slope, he began to walk. Haynes clucked
at him and flapped the reins, but this had no effect beyond steering
Bucephalus into the left-hand ditch.
"I thought you said you knew the moves," remarked Ansell. "Surely this
is wrong?"
"The bally beast's lopsided," said Haynes with heat. "One side of his
mouth's hard and the other soft."
"The difficulty being," I suggested as we lurched across the road into
the other ditch, "to discover which is which.... Now you're straight.
We'd better trot. It's only a one-day match."
Haynes used the ancient whip, which had as much effect as tickling a
rhinoceros with a feather.
"Goad him with a penknife," suggested Ansell unfeelingly.
"There must be some way," said Haynes. "Because they _do_ trot, you
know."
"Speaking as one ignorant amateur to another," I asked, "isn't the right
thing to pull gently on the reins and then slacken? You go on doing it
till the animal gets your meaning. Try it."
Haynes tried it, and Bucephalus stopped dead. Repetition of the
treatment simply produced a tendency to back.
"For heaven's sake don't lose any of the ground we've gained," said
Ansell. "Let's get on, if only at a walk."
"We shall have to tow him," decided Haynes. He got out and hauled at the
bridle, but Bucephalus refused to budge.
"This," said Ansell, becoming suddenly business-like, "is where the Boy
Hero modestly but firmly takes charge. Jump in."
He picked up the reins and, though he apparently did nothing in
particular with them, Bucephalus came to life at once and broke into a
lumbering trot.
"You silly chump, why didn't you say you could drive?" asked Haynes.
"Nobody asked me," said the Boy Hero modestly, "and I was shy."
At the time when we had been scheduled to reach the cricket-ground we
had still a mile to go along a narrow leafy road, hardly more than a
lane. The cars were overdue, and Haynes, whose haughty spirit could not
brook the idea of being passed by jeering plutocrats, propounded a
scheme.
"They can't pass us unless we go into the ditch," he explained. "So when
they come we'll pretend to be asleep, take up the middle of the road,
and simply ignore them. We'll get there first, after all."
A moment later we heard the buzz of engines. I took a hurried glance
round and saw the sunlight on brasswork as the car came round a distant
corner.
"It's them," I said.
The reins dropped slackly on Bucephalus's back and he slowed to a walk.
Inside the governess-cart all was somnolent peace. Behind us the car was
already beginning to make remarks on one of those abusive
press-the-button horns. "You FOOL! You FOOL! Get OUT o' the way! Get OUT
o' the way!" it said. Then we heard the car slow down and pandemonium
broke loose. The horn was reinforced by an ordinary hooter, a whistle,
several human voices and, lastly, an exhaust siren. I stole a glance at
Ansell and found that he was having a good deal of surreptitious trouble
in restraining our fiery steed from doing a second bolt.
"I say," whispered Haynes in sudden agitation, "_has_ Miss Ropes an
exhaust siren?"
"No, she hasn't," Ansell replied in tones of horror. "We've held up the
wrong car." He looked round. "Good Lord!" he added softly and pulled
Bucephalus into the ditch. In the car, with a grinning Tommy at the
wheel, sat two apoplectic generals and a highly explosive brigade-major.
They came alongside, and I should never be allowed to repeat what they
said to us. It seemed that by delaying them we had been hindering the
day's work of the entire Home Forces. We were given to understand that
it was only the blue bands on our arms which saved us from being
court-martialled on the spot and shot by the grinning Tommy at dawn.
Then they passed on.
When our cars did appear a minute or two later we pulled meekly into the
ditch to let them pass, and could find no better answer to the jeers of
their occupants than a wan sickly smile apiece.
* * * * *