“Sounds as if she’d come clear,” said Mellors.
But Clifford had already jerked her into gear. She gave a sick lurch and ebbed weakly forwards.
“If I give her a push, she’ll do it,” said the keeper, going behind.
“Keep off!” snapped Clifford. “She’ll do it by herself.”
“But Clifford!” put in Connie from the bank, “you know it’s too much for her. Why are you so obstinate!”
Clifford was pale with anger. He jabbed at his levers. The chair gave a sort of scurry, reeled on a few more yards, and came to her end amid a particularly promising patch of bluebells.
“She’s done!” said the keeper. “Not power enough.”
“She’s been up here before,” said Clifford coldly.
“She won’t do it this time,” said the keeper.
Clifford did not reply. He began doing things with his engine, running her fast and slow as if to get some sort of tune out of her. The wood reechoed with weird noises. Then he put her in gear with a jerk, having jerked off his brake.
“You’ll rip her inside out,” murmured the keeper.
The chair charged in a sick lurch sideways at the ditch.
“Clifford!” cried Connie, rushing forward.
But the keeper had got the chair by the rail. Clifford, however, putting on all his pressure, managed to steer into the riding, and with a strange noise the chair was fighting the hill. Mellors pushed steadily behind, and up she went, as if to retrieve herself.