e been passed between
our near-side running-board and that of the cabriolet. I could
certainly have touched the lorry, had I put out my hand....

Then we swept on and up and over the crest.

Thereafter all was plain sailing.

As we ran into Peyrehorade, I glanced at my watch.

I had lost my bet by about a quarter of a minute. But for the led
horses, we should have run to time....

Upon one matter we were all agreed, and that was that the driver of the
grey cabriolet was going much too fast.

So soon as we had passed through the town, Berry and I changed places.
Almost immediately the road deteriorated. Its fine straightforward
rolling nature was maintained: the surface, however, was in tatters....

After ten kilometres of misery, my brother-in-law slowed up and
stopped. Then he turned to me.

"Have you ever driven upon this road (sic) before?"

I shook my head.

"Well, you can start now," was the reply. "I'm fed up, I am. I'd
rather drive on the beach." With that he opened his door. "Oh, and
give me back that cigar."

"Courage," I said, detaining him. "It can't last."

"Pardon me," said Berry, "but it can last for blistering leagues. I
know these roads. Besides, my right knee's getting tremulous."

"It's quite good practice," I ventured.

"What for?" was the bitter reply. "My future estate? Possibly. I
have no doubt that there it will be my blithesome duty continually to
back a charabanc with a fierce clutch up an interminable equivalent of
the Eiffel Tower. At present----"

"And you were driving so beautifully," said his wife.

"What--not with _finesse_?" said her husband.

"Rather," said I. "Ginger, too."

"What d'you mean--'ginger'?"--suspiciously.

"Determination," said I hurriedly.

"Not the b-b-bull-dog b-b-breed?"

"The same," said I. "All underhung.
'Shove-me-and-I'll-shove-your-face' sort of air. It was most
noticeable."

Berry slammed the door and felt for the self-starter....

As we bucketed down the next slope--

"I only wish," he said, "that we could encounter the deceitful monger
responsible for including this road among _les grands itineraires_. I
can stand pot-holes, but the remains of a railway platform which might
have been brought from one of what we know as 'the stricken areas,'
laid, like linoleum, upon a foot of brickdust, tend to make you gird at
Life. Incidentally, is this fast enough for you? Or are your livers
still sluggish?"

"I think," s