close to rapture that the discomfort went unnoticed. Jake's wide
friendly mouth was pursed in a whistle that went on endlessly, the
opening bars of "Tiger Rag" repeated over and over again, and his eyes
were screwed up against the gloom of the interior.
He worked swiftly, checking the throttle and ignition settings of the
controls, tracing out the fuel lines from the rear-mounted fuel tank,
finding the cocks under the driver's seat and grunting with
satisfaction. He scrambled out of the turret and dropped down the high
side of the vehicle, pausing to wipe away with his forearm the thin
trickle of sweat that broke from his thick curly black hair and ran
down his cheek, then he hurried forward and knocked the clamps open on
the side flaps of the armoured engine-cover.
"Oh sweet, sweet!" he whispered, as he saw the fine outlines of the
old Bentley engine block beneath the layer of thick dust and greasy
filth.
His hands with the big square palms and thick spatulate fingers went
out to touch it with what was almost a caress.
"The bastards have beaten you up, darling," he whispered.
"But we will have you singing again as lovely as ever, that's a
promise." He pulled the dipstick from the engine sump and took a drop
of oil between his fingers.
"Shit!" he grunted with disgust, as he felt the grittiness, and he
thrust the stick back into its slot. He pulled the plugs and, with the
promise of a shilling, had a loitering African swing the crank for him
while he felt the compression against the palm of his hand.
Swiftly he moved along the line of armoured cars, checking,
probing and testing, and when he reached the last of them he knew he
could have three of them running again for certain and four maybe.
One was shot beyond hope. There was a crack in the engine block
through which he could have ridden a horse, and the pistons had seized
so solid in their pots that not even the combined muscle upon the crank
handle of Jake and his helper could move them.
Two of them had the entire carburettor assemblies missing, but he could
cannibalize from the wreck. That left him short of one carburettor and
he felt only gloom at his chances of finding another in Dares Salaam.
Three, then, he could reckon on with certainty. At one hundred and ten
pounds apiece, that was 030. Less an estimated outlay of one hundred,
it gave him a clear profit of two hundred and thirty pounds for surely
he would not have to bid more than twenty pounds each for these
wrecks.
Jake felt a warm spreading glow of satisfaction as he tossed his
African helper the promised shilling. Two hundred and thirty pounds
was a great deal of money in these lean and hungry times.
A quick glance at the fob-watch he hauled from his back pocket showed
him there was still over two hours before the advertised time of the
commencement of the sale. He was impatient to begin work on those
Bentleys not only for the money. For Jake it would be a labour of
love.
The one in the centre of the line seemed the best bet for quick
results. He placed his carpet bag on the armoured wing of the mudguard
and selected a Yth-inch spanner.
Immediately he was totally absorbed.
After half an hour he pulled his head out of the engine, wiped his
hands on a handful of cotton waste and hurried around to the front of
the car.
The big muscles in his right arm bunched and rippled as he swung the
crank handle, spinning the heavy engine easily with a steady whirring
rhythm. After a minute of this, he released the handle and wiped off
his sweat with the cotton waste that left grease marks down his cheeks.
He was breathing quickly but lightly.
"I knew you for a temperamental bitch the moment I laid eyes on you,"
he muttered. "But you are going to do it my way, darling. You really
are." Once more his head and shoulders disappeared under the engine
cowling and there was the clink of the spanner against metal and the
monotonous repetition of "Tiger Rag" in a low off-key whistle for
another ten minutes, then again Jake went to the crank handle.
"You are going to do it my way, baby and what's more you're going to
like it." He spun the handle and the engine kicked viciously,
back-fired like a rifle shot, and the crank handle snapped out of
Jake's hand with enough force to have taken his thumb off if he had
been holding it with an opposed grip.
"Jesus," whispered Jake, "a real little hell catV He scrambled up into
the turret and reached down to the controls and reset the ignition.
At the next swing of the crank handle she bucked and fired, caught and
surged, then fell back into a steady beat, quivering slightly on her
rigid suspension, but come alive.
Jake stepped back, sweating, flushed, but with his dark green eyes
shining with delight.
"Oh you beauty, "he said. "You bloody little beauty."
"Bravo,"
said a voice behind him, and Jake started and turned quickly. He had
forgotten that he was not the only person left on earth, in his
complete absorption with the machine, and now he felt embarrassed, as
though he had been observed in some intimate and private bodily
function.
