There was another pause, then another start; but more ineffectual than before.
“You must let me push,” she said. “Or sound the horn for the keeper.”
“Wait!”
She waited; and he had another try, doing more harm than good.
“Sound the horn then, if you won’t let me push,” she said.
“Hell! Be quiet a moment!”
She was quiet a moment: he made shattering efforts with the little motor.
“You’ll only break the thing down altogether, Clifford,” she remonstrated; “besides wasting your nervous energy.”
“If I could only get out and look at the damned thing!” he said, exasperated. And he sounded the horn stridently. “Perhaps Mellors can see what’s wrong.”
They waited, among the mashed flowers under a sky softly curdling with cloud. In the silence a wood-pigeon began to coo, roo-hoo hoo! roo-hoo hoo! Clifford shut her up with a blast on the horn.
The keeper appeared directly, striding inquiringly round the corner. He saluted.
“Do you know anything about motors?” asked Clifford sharply.
“I am afraid I don’t. Has she gone wrong?”
“Apparently!” snapped Clifford.
The man crouched solicitously by the wheel, and peered at the little engine.