I reduced my attire to boots and underclothing, and toiled through
Belle Espérance, the curs of the village nibbling my calves, the
children shrilling to their mammas to come and see the strong man from
the circus.

At Quatre Vents the brave heart broke.

"Look here," said I to the protesting child, "if you imagine I'm going
to push you all the way to Arras you're 'straying in the realms of
fancy,' as the poet says. Because I'm not. Just you hop out and do
your bit, me lad. It's my turn to ride."

In vain did he argue that I was not schooled in the mysteries of
either steering or clutching. Assuring him that I precious soon would
be, I dragged him from his perch and took station at the helm. Sulkily
he betook himself to the stern of the vehicle, and presently it began
to move. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. I suddenly perceived
the reason of this. We were going down-hill again, a steep hill at
that, with wicked hair-pin bends in it.

The engine began to cough, the cough became chronic, developing into a
galloping consumption.

"Brakes!" thought I (forgetting they were out of action), and wrenched
at a handle which was offering itself. The car jumped off the mark
like a hunter at a hurdle, jumped clear away from the child (who sat
down abruptly on the _pavé_) and bolted down-hill all out. I glimpsed
the low parapet of the bend rushing towards me, an absurdly inadequate
parapet, with the silvery gleam of much cold water beyond it.