nervous, wobbling whenever there was a delicate piece of steering to be done or a restive horse to be passed. He changed speeds so clumsily that the pinions went together with a crash each time, and shivers ran up and down my spine when I heard the noise and thought of the damage this conceited idiot might do to my poor gears. Could you stand by like Patience on the lee cathead, smiling at a wet swab, while some duffer with a whip and spurs bestrode your favourite stallion, Roland? Perhaps that simile will help you to understand how I've been feeling all day.
Payne is a rank amateur. I doubt if he ever drove a Napier before, and would bet something he depended for his success to-day (such as it was) on keen observation of everything Miss Randolph did before he took the helm. He knows how to steer a moderately straight course and to change speeds—that's about all; and I wouldn't trust his nerve in an emergency. However, we bowled along without incident through Tarbes and Tournay, thanks more to the fine car than the driver; but when mounting a long stretch of steep road beyond a place called Lanespede, where a great railway viaduct crosses the valley, Payne missed his change, and then completely lost his head, failing to put on the brakes to prevent us running down the hill backwards. Luckily I was sitting on the brake side, and reaching out of the tonneau, I seized the lever of the hand-brake and jammed it on. Next instant (to make quite sure) I jumped out, ran to the front, and lowered the sprag. I don't think any of them knew what a
