Free The Golden Virgin by Henry Williamson Page B

said to Captain Kingsman, who was thoughtfully stroking his moustache.
    “That is an epitaph as good as any.”
    While Phillip was wondering what he meant, Captain Kingsman said, “Is this a particularly favourite route of yours to Southend?”
    “No, I’ve never been here before. I thought that perhaps you knew the way.”
    “Well, one can get on to the road by the next turn to the left, about two miles ahead.”
    The road was narrow but straight, with an occasional thatched cottage along it. To show off the Swift’s paces, Phillip kept the pedal pressed to the floorboard. It might almost have been a steam-engine under the bonnet, he thought, so smoothly did it thrust away at the crankshaft with its nine iron horses.
    Captain Kingsman spoke again. Phillip said he was sorry, he could not hear. Captain Kingsman shouted, “I fancy nine hundred R.P.M. is the safe limit for this type of engine, with the unmodified flywheel.”
    “I see, thank you,” Phillip shouted back, his foot still hard down.
    Captain Kingsman shouted, “Your engine is now doing almost eleven hundred revvs!”
    Phillip looked over his shoulder and shouted, “I think there must be something in your speed pills, Cox, you old rattler!”
    Captain Kingsman tugged at his moustache. He was about to ask Phillip to stop, when a yellow whangee cane rapped the driver on the shoulder.
    “Not so fast, one-piecee mad boy!” yelled Cox. “It’s horribly bloody cold at the back.”
    “We’ll stop at a pub and get some hot Irish whiskey soon, boys!” shouted the driver. “Olley-Olley-Olley!” he yelled, as he pressed down the accelerator.
    Captain Kingsman was now crouching up in his seat, hand covering moustache and mouth, as though meditating a problem—or ready to roll himself into a limp ball. His eyes were fixed on the glass cylinder containing the oil-drip. Then he tripped the switch and unscrewed the oil regulator, so that the drip became a stream; then it ceased to fall.
    “Don’t declutch! Keep her in gear! Close the throttle!” He switched on. “Now declutch and let the engine idle a few moments, to get the oil circulating!”
    The car came to a standstill. The water around the engine was boiling.
    “Switch off, but don’t touch the radiator cap!”
    Clouds of steam arose from in front. They waited until the rumbling ceased. Then Captain Kingsman said, “May I look under the bonnet? Ah, as I thought, your oil tank is empty. Another few seconds, and your big ends would have run their white metal. Have you a spare oil can? Do you mind if I look? Ah, here it is.” He poured out a little, rubbed it between finger and thumb, sniffed it, decided it was thick enough, and said, “Shall I fill your tank?”
    “Thanks. I’d forgotten about the oil. Very careless of me, I’m sure.”
    “This will do until we get to a garage. There’s one of sorts near Horndon-on-the-Hill.”
    They got back under the scuttle.
    “Not so fast this time, one-piecee mad boy,” said Cox, rapping with the cane.
    The driver kept the needle at thirty-five. “How’s that for you, Rattler?”
    “Bloody awful cold.”
    The needle dropped to thirty. “How’s that?”
    “Damned cold.”
    “We don’t need a speedometer when Cox is aboard,” said Phillip to Kingsman. “At forty he’s horribly bloody cold, at thirty-five he’s bloody awful cold, at thirty, damned cold! Let’s see what speedometer says at twenty-five.”
    “How are you feeling now, Cox?”
    “Still cold.”
    They were approaching a straw stack beside the road. The driver stopped again, and getting down, gathered an armful, which he stuffed between puttee’d legs and the interior of the dickey. Cox’s face had a bluish tinge, and the eyeglass seemed to have cut more into his flesh.
    “Anyway, it’s a damned sight better than being in a flooded trench, Rattler. Here, take my British warm.”
    “Don’t you want it yourself?”
    “I’m inured.”
    Nothing could ever be so bad as the