“Are you badly hurt?” Frampton asked. “Is anyone hurt?”
“No, there’s nothing the matter. But something’s happened to this damned car,” Pob said. “Funny thing. I can’t get her to start. The ignition’s konkt, or something.”
He was unsteady in his gait. A sweet and strong smell of alcohol was diffused all round him. Frampton saw a little blood trickling down his face.
“I’ve been working at the self-starter the last half-hour,” Pob went on. “Can’t get a signal.”
“Let’s have a look,” Frampton said. “It looks to me as though more than the ignition has gone. Are you all alone here?”
“Just like Jonah in the whale,” Pob said.
Frampton turned the light on the wreck. Like most motor wrecks, it looked bad, because of the crumpling of the wings; but this one was bad; more than the wings had suffered. The left front wheel was bent to a V shape, and the fore part of the car was very nearly wrenched off the rest of it; the windscreen had been torn off. It seemed to Frampton that Pob must have been flung through it.
“How did the car get in the ditch?” Frampton asked.
“Some damned chap must have put it there,” Pob said. He laughed in a crazy, weak way. “Some damned chap when I wasn’t looking, what.”
“That’s the idea,” Frampton said, thinking that this was a concussion case and should be treated in bed as soon as might be. “It wants a vet, this car,” Frampton said. “You’ll not start this car to-night. You’d better let me drive you home. Where d’you want to go?”
“I don’t want to go without the car,” Pob said. “It’s my father’s car. He doesn’t let me drive this. It’s only the ignition’s got some grit on it; any grit’s bad for ignition. If you’ll give me a hand to start her, I’ll be all right.”
“The car’s ruined,” Frampton said. “Look. See for yourself. It’ll cost a sink of monkeys to mend this car, if she can be mended. Jump into my car, and let me drive you home. Or, better still, get your father’s driver to come out with you to look at the ignition.”
“Old Bill Bailey will get her to start,” Pob said. “Wonderful feller, Bill Bailey; and, of course, he knows this car.”
“Come on, then; I’ll drive you to him. Where is he to be found.”
“He lives at the
“Well,” Frampton said, “here’s my car. You’d better sit still and not talk. You have had a bang, I should judge, even if you don’t remember it.”
He helped Pob into the seat beside him. “It’s only a few miles,” Pob said. “It’s awfully decent of you to give me a lift like this.”
He saw Frampton’s face for an instant, as he took his seat. Frampton switched off the light as he took the wheel, but some memory was touched in Pob.
“I say,” he said, “do I know you? I seem to have seen your face somewhere. I suppose I met you out hunting.”
“One meets a lot of chaps out hunting,” Frampton said.
“Yes, by Jove,” Pob said, “one does meet a lot out hunting. I say, were you out the opening day? Tibb’s Spirr Cross Day? We had a rare old score off that gunman. We laid a drag through his bally old cover. The chap’s an awful bounder; a bolshie who makes guns; wants to stop hunting. Stinks of money, of course; all these chaps do. But we scored him off all right. I wonder, have you got a spot of brandy on you? Always carry brandy in a car myself. Would you mind just turning back and get me a spot of brandy? It’s in the car; in the pocket of my car. A bottle, half-full of the Best.”
“I saw it all smashed to flinders,” Frampton said. “Besides, I must go on. I’ve got an appointment.”
“I say, what rotten luck,” Pob said crossly. “You needn’t keep an appointment at this time of night. I say,” he said suddenly, “is this my car?”
“No,” Frampton said, “it’s mine.”
“Well, I wish you’d let me drive to a pub; or let me drive.”
“I’ll drive, thanks.”
“But I like driving.”
“Not so much as I do.”
“By Jove, I’m going to drive,” Pob said. “I’m going back for the brandy.” He grabbed at the wheel. As it chanced, Frampton had expected something of the sort and elbowed him off pretty hard. “I must get back to my car,” Pob cried.
“I’m taking you there. You’ll be there in a minute,” Frampton answered.
After a time, Pob said:
“I wonder would you mind stopping? I rather think I shall cat.”
Frampton stopped the car, Pob tottered out and was sick.
“I say,” he said, “I wonder if you’ve a spot of brandy on you.”
“I’ll take you to some wonderful brandy in a few minutes,” Frampton said.
“What’s become of Pinkie?” Pob asked suddenly.
“Pinkie?”
“Yes. Pinkie-Punkie we call her. She was in the car with me.
“You mean, that she was in your father’s car?”
“Yes, of course.”