The Lightning Conductor | Page 8

on again, but that
was just what it wasn't. Rattray worked over it half an hour (everything
takes half an hour to do on this car, I notice, when it doesn't take more),
saying things under his breath which Aunt Mary was too deaf and I too
dignified to hear. Finally I was driven to remark waspishly, "You'd be a
bad soldier; a good soldier makes the best of things, and bears them
like a man. You make the worst."
"That's all very well, miss," retorted my gloomy goblin; "but soldiers
have to fight men, not beasts."
"They get killed sometimes," said I.
"There's things makes a man want to die," groaned he. And that
silenced me, even though I heard a ceaseless mumbling about "every
bloomin' screw being loose; that he'd engaged as a mechanic, not a
car-maker; that if he was a car-maker, he was hanged if he'd disgrace
himself making one of this sort, anyhow."
You'll think I'm exaggerating, but I vow we had not gone more than ten
miles further before that chain broke again. This time I believe Rattray

shed tears. As for Aunt Mary, her attitude was that of cold, Christian
resignation. She had sacrificed herself to me, and would continue to do
so, since such was her Duty, with a capital D; indeed, she had expected
this, and from the first she had told me, etc., etc. At last the chain was
forced on again and fastened with a new bolt. We sped forward for a
few deceitful moments, but--detail is growing monotonous. After that
something happened to the car, on the average, every hour. Chains
snapped or came off; if belts didn't break, they were too short or too
long. Mysterious squeaks made themselves heard; the crank-head got
hot (what head wouldn't?), and we had to wait until it thought fit to
cool, a process which could scarcely be accelerated by Rattray's
language. He now announced that this make of car, and my specimen in
particular, was the vilest in the automobile world. If a worse could be
made, it did not yet exist! When I ventured to inquire why he had not
expressed this opinion before leaving London, he announced that it was
not his business to express opinions, but to drive such vehicles as he
was engaged to drive. I hoped that there must be something wrong with
the automobile which Rattray didn't understand; that in Paris I could
have it put right, and that even yet all might go well. For a few miles
we went with reasonable speed, and no mishaps; but half-way up a long,
long hill the mystic "power" vanished once more, and there we were
stranded nearly opposite a forge, from which strolled three huge,
black-faced men, adorned with pitying smiles.
"Hire them to push," I said despairingly to Rattray, and as he turned a
sulky back to obey, I heard a whirring sound, and an automobile flew
past us up the steep hill, going about fifteen miles an hour. That did
seem the last straw; and with hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness in
my breast, I was shaking my fist after the thing, when it stopped
politely.
There were two men in it, both in leather caps and coats--I noticed that
half unconsciously. Now one of them jumped out and came walking
back to us. Taking off his cap, he asked me with his eyes and Aunt
Mary with his voice--in English--if there was anything he could do. He
was very good-looking, and spoke nicely, like a gentleman, but he
seemed so successful that I couldn't help hating him and wishing he

would go away. The only thing I wanted was that he and the other man
and their car should be specks in the distance when Rattray came back
with his blacksmiths to push us up the hill; so I thanked him hurriedly,
and said we didn't need help. Perhaps I said it rather stiffly, I was so
wild to have him gone. He stood for a minute as if he would have liked
to say something else, but didn't know how, then bowed, and went back
to his car. In a minute it was shooting up hill again, and I never was
gladder at anything in my life than when I saw it disappear over the
top--only just in time too, for it wasn't out of sight when our three
blacksmiths had their shoulders to the task.
"There's a good car, if you like, miss," said that fiend Rattray. "It's a
Napier. Some pleasure in driving that."
I could have boxed his ears.
Once on level ground again, the car seemed to recover a little strength.
But night fell when we were still a long way from Paris, and our poor
oil-lamps only gave