With a
loud creaking of hinges she turned her head, summed up the situation
at a glance and, casting off half-a-dozen decades "like raiment
laid apart," sprang for the side-walk with the agility of an infant
gazelle. We missed her by half-an-inch and she had nobody but herself
to thank.
Against a short incline, just beyond the stricken village, the car
came to a standstill of its own accord, panting brokenly, quivering in
every limb.
"She's red-'ot," said the child, and I believed him.
From the kettle arrangement in the bows came the sound of hot water
singing merrily, while from the spout steam issued hissing. The
tin trunk, in which lurks the clockwork, emitted dense volumes of
petrol-perfumed smoke from every chink. The child climbed across me
and, dropping overboard, opened the lid and crawled inside. I lit a
pipe and perused the current "_La Vie Parisienne_."
The clockwork roared and raged and exploded with the sharp detonations
of a machine-gun. Sounds of violent coughing and tinkering came from
the bowels of the trunk, telling that the child was still alive and
busy. Presently he emerged to breathe and wipe the oil off his nose.
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