Mr. Wooster gaped at me. Very glassily he gaped.

“Out of order!”

“Yes, sir. Something is wrong. Trivial, perhaps, but possibly a matter of some little time to repair.” Mr. Wooster being one of those easygoing young gentlemen who’ll drive a car but never take the trouble to learn anything about its mechanism, I felt justified in becoming technical. “I think it is the differential gear, sir. Either that or the exhaust.”

I’m fond of Mr. Wooster, and I admit I came very near to melting as I looked at his face. He was staring at me in a sort of dumb despair that would have touched anybody.

“Then I’m sunk! Or”⁠—a slight gleam of hope flickered across his drawn features⁠—“do you think I could sneak out and leg it across country, Jeeves?”