s no excuse for all these 'outers.' Yes, I know it's
a scream, but I was once told never to put _foie gras_ upon the nose or
cheeks. They say it draws the skin. Oh, and don't let's have any
comic nonsense about the beer," he added shortly. "Pour it straight
into my breast-pocket and have done with it. Then I can suck my
handkerchief."

As he spoke, Nobby leaned forward and took the dishevelled sandwich out
of my unready fingers.

"That's right," added Berry, with the laugh of a maniac. "Cast my
portion to the dogs." He dabbed his face with a handkerchief. "Never
mind. When his hour comes, you'll have to hold him out of the window.
I'm not going to stop every time he wants to be sick."

Eventually it was decided that, since we should have to stop for
petrol, Berry must seize that opportunity to devour some food.

"Besides," I concluded, "a rest of a quarter of an hour will do you
good."

As the words left my mouth, I noticed for the first time that my
brother-in-law was tiring.

For the moment I thought I was mistaken, for upon our previous runs he
had never turned a hair. Now, however, he seemed to be driving with an
effort. As if to confirm my suspicions, at the very next hill he
missed his change.

"I think," I said quickly, "you ought to have your lunch right away.
It's no good getting done in for want of food."

Berry shot me a pathetic glance.

"It isn't that, old chap. It's---- Hang it all, it's my shoulder!
That cursed muscular rheumatism cropped up again yesterday...."

The murder was out.

After a little he admitted that, ever since we had left Poitiers, any
quick movement of his left arm had caused him intense pain.

Of course both Adele and I besought him to stop there and then and let
the race go to blazes. Of this he would not hear, declaring that, so
long as Jonah was behind, victory was not out of sight, and that
nothing short of paralysis would induce him to jilt the jade. After a
little argument, we let him have his way ...

The road continued to offer an abominable passage, and when we stopped
at a garage in Bordeaux, it was five minutes to three of a beautiful
afternoon.

The third bidon was discharging its contents into Pong's tank, and
Berry was sitting wearily upon the running-board, with his mouth full
and a glass of beer in his hand, when, with an apologetic cough, Ping
emerged from behind an approaching tram and slid past us over the
cobbles with a smooth rush.