'We can walk back to Turnhill and buy some petrol, some of us!'
snapped Harold. 'That's what we can do!'
'Sithee,' said Uncle Dan. 'There's the Plume o' Feathers half-a-
mile back. Th' landlord's a friend o' mine. I can borrow his mare
and trap, and drive to Turnhill and fetch some o' thy petrol, as
thou calls it.'
'It's awfully good of you, uncle.'
'Nay, lad, I'm doing it for please mysen. But Maud mun come wi'
me. Give us th' money for th' petrol, as thou calls it.'
'Then I must stay here alone?' Harold complained.
'Seemingly,' the old man agreed.
After a few words on pigeons, and a glass of beer, Dan had no
difficulty whatever in borrowing his friend's white mare and black
trap. He himself helped in the harnessing. Just as he was driving
triumphantly away, with that delicious vision Maud on his left
hand and a stable-boy behind, he reined the mare in.
'Give us a couple o' penny smokes, matey,' he said to the
landlord, and lit one.
The mare could go, and Dan could make her go, and she did go. And
the whole turn-out looked extremely dashing when, ultimately, it
dashed into the glare of the acetylene lamps which the deserted
Harold had lighted on his car.
The red end of a penny smoke in the gloom of twilight looks
exactly as well as the red end of an Havana.
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