Where I made my initial error was in permitting Andy Finch to come round
next morning. Weakly deciding that I might possibly be able to extract a
grain or two of helpful information from the avalanche of advice which
would descend upon me, I agreed to his proposal that he should come and
assist me to “start her up.”
Andy arrived in due course, and proceeded to run over the car’s points
in a manner which at first rather impressed me. Hitherto I had contented
myself with opening a sort of oven door in the dish-cover arrangement
which concealed the creature’s works from view, and peering in with an
air of intense wisdom, much as a diffident amateur inspects a horse’s
mouth. After that I usually felt the tyres, in search of spavins and
curbs. Andy began by removing the dish-cover bodily—I learned for the
first time that it was called the bonnet,—and then proceeded to tear up
the boards on the floor of the car. This done, a number of curious and
mysterious objects were exposed to view for the first time, with the
functions and shortcomings of each of which I was fated to become
severally and monotonously familiar.
Having completed his observations, Andy suggested a run along the road.
I did not know then, as I know now, that his knowledge of automobilism
was about on a par with my own; otherwise I would not have listened with
such respect or permitted him to take any further liberties with the
mechanism. However, I knew no better, and this is what happened.