“I’m afraid I know nothing at all about these mechanical things, Sir Clifford,” he said calmly. “If she has enough petrol and oil—”
“Just look carefully and see if you can see anything broken,” snapped Clifford.
The man laid his gun against a tree, took off his coat and threw it beside it. The brown dog sat guard. Then he sat down on his heels and peered under the chair, poking with his finger at the greasy little engine, and resenting the grease-marks on his clean Sunday shirt.
“Doesn’t seem anything broken,” he said. And he stood up, pushing back his hat from his forehead, rubbing his brow and apparently studying.
“Have you looked at the rods underneath?” asked Clifford. “See if they are all right!”
The man lay flat on his stomach on the floor, his neck pressed back, wriggling under the engine and poking with his finger. Connie thought what a pathetic sort of thing a man was, feeble and small-looking, when he was lying on his belly on the big earth.
“Seems all right as far as I can see,” came his muffled voice.
“I don’t suppose you can do anything,” said Clifford.
“Seems as if I can’t!” And he scrambled up and sat on his heels again, collier fashion. “There’s certainly nothing obviously broken.”
Clifford started his engine, then put her in gear. She would not move.
“Run her a bit hard, like,” suggested the keeper.
Clifford resented the interference: but he made his engine buzz like a bluebottle. Then she coughed and snarled and seemed to go better.