'bout a thousand feet. But he never done nothin' to the old bloke."

"Good gracious!"

"Well, it finished Henery, killed him stone dead, of course,
and the old man he was terrible cut up over losin' such a steady,
trustworthy man. `Never get another like him,' he says."

We were nearly at our journey's end, and we turned through a gate
into the home paddocks. Some young stock, both horses and cattle,
came frisking and cantering after the car, and the rough bush track
took all Alfred's attention. We crossed a creek, the water swishing
from the wheels, and began the long pull up to the homestead.
Over the clamour of the little-used second speed, Alfred concluded
his narrative.

"The old bloke advertised," he said, "for another driver, a steady,
reliable man to drive a twenty horse-power, four-cylinder touring car.
Every driver in Sydney put in for it. Nothing like a fast car
to fetch 'em, you know. And Scotty got it. Him wot used to drive
the Napier I was tellin' you about."

"And what did the old man say when he found he'd been running
a racing car?"

"He don't know now. Scotty never told 'im. Why should he?
He's drivin' about the country now, the boss of the roads,
but he won't chance her near a circus. Thinks he might bump
the same elephant. And that elephant, every time he smells a car
passin' in the road, he goes near mad with fright. If he ever sees