I was walking painfully along a lonely road towing my
three-thousand-guinea ten-cylinder twelve-seater. According to
Regulation 777 X, both brakes were on. My overcoat collar was turned
up to protect my sensitive skin from a blasting easterly gale, and
through the twilight I was able to see but a few yards ahead. I had
a blister on my heel. Somewhere, many miles to the eastward, lay my
destination. Suddenly two gigantic forms emerged from the hedgerow
and laid each a gigantic paw upon my shoulders. A gruff voice barked
accusingly in my ear.
"You are the owner of a motorcar?"
Was it any use denying the fact? I thought not.
"Yes," I replied humbly, "I am."
"Have you the permit which allows you to possess this?" He waved
towards the stagnant 'bus.
"I have."
"Have you the licence which allows you to take it upon the high road?"
With frozen fingers I held it out to him. He moved to the back of the
car, unscrewed the entrance to the petrol tank and applied his nose
to the aperture. After three official sniffs he turned upon me
aggressively.
"There is an undeniable odour of petroleum. How do you account for
that?"
"Sir," I replied, "last week my little son had his knockabout suit
dry-cleaned in Perthshire by the petrol-substitute process. This
morning he climbed upon the back of the car to see whether his Silver
Campine had laid an egg in the hood."
He glared at me.
"Ah! Have you the necessary extension which allows you to use a
motorcar as a habitation for hens?"