"'_Mercredi_.'"

"I don't believe a word of it," cried Daphne. "You said '_Mardi_.'

You know you did."

Here a seemingly interminable freight-train started to lumber across our path....

As the rumble began to die--

"I think," said I, "he must have got 'Wednesday' through. Otherwise Evelyn would have rung up last night."

Berry drew a case from his pocket and offered me a cigar. Then he turned to my sister and protruded his tongue....

We had known Evelyn Fairie for years. It was natural that we should wish to know Evelyn Swetecote. That wedlock could have diminished her charm was not to be thought of. But we were forgivably curious to see her in the married state and to make the acquaintance of the man whom she had chosen out of so many suitors. Little knowing that we were at Pau, Evelyn had written to us from Biarritz. In due season her letter had arrived, coming by way of Hampshire. An answer in the shape of a general invitation to lunch had brought not so much a refusal as a definite counter-proposal that we should suggest a day and come to Biarritz. In reply, the services of the telephone had been requisitioned, and, if my brother-in-law was to be believed, Mrs.

Swetecote had been advised to expect us on Wednesday.

In any event, expected or unexpected, here were we, all six, upon the road--my wife and cousins in one car, and Daphne, Berry, and I within the other.

As we swung into the paved streets of Orthez--

"And when," said Berry, "when am I to drive?"

"From Peyrehorade," I replied.

"Oh. I suppose that's where the stones begin, or the road stops, or something."

I shook my head.

"Not that I know of. And you can drive all the way back. But--well, there's a hill or two coming, and--and I'd like just to take her so far," I concluded lamely.

But for my sister's presence, I would have told him the truth. This was that I had bet Jonah that I could get from Orthez to Peyrehorade in twenty minutes. The distance was exactly thirty kilometres, and the road was perfect. There were no corners, and the bends were few.

There were hills, certainly; but these were straightforward enough and could be taken, so to speak, in our stride. Moreover, there were no cross-roads, and only two turnings worth thinking about. To some cars the feat would have been nothing. Whether it was within the reach of Ping and Pong remained to be seen....

As we left Orthez, I looked at my watch.

Ten minutes to eleven.

I laid hold of the wheel....

To this hour I cannot tell why Daphne did not exercise the prerogative of a pa.s.senger and protest against the pace. But neither at the time or thereafter did she so much as mention it. Berry confessed later that he had been frightened to death.

Three kilometres out, there was a bend, and the needle of the speedometer, which, after rising steadily, had come to rest against the stop, retreated momentarily to record fifty-five.... We sang past a wayside farm, dropped into a valley, soared up the opposite side, flashed in and out of an apparently deserted village, shot up a long incline, and slowed up for a curve.... Then some poultry demanded consideration. As we left them behind, the agitation of two led horses necessitated a still further reduction of speed. We lost such time as I had made, and more also. Still, we were going downhill, and, as if impatient of the check, the car sprang forward.... We rose from the bottom with the smooth rush of a non-stop elevator. As we breasted the rise, I saw another and steeper dale before us. The road was becoming a switchback....

At the top of the opposite hill was a big grey cabriolet coming towards us. At the foot was a panting lorry going our way. An approaching Ford was about to pa.s.s it. The cabriolet and Pong fell down their respective slopes....

The Ford was abreast of the lorry, and the cabriolet was prepared to pa.s.s the two when we arrived. It was a question of giving way--at least, it ought to have been. It was, however, too late. Happily, there was more room than time at our disposal--a very little more.

There was no time at all....

For one never-to-be-forgotten instant there were four vehicles in a row. I doubt if an ordinary matchbox could have been pa.s.sed between our near-side running-board and that of the cabriolet. I could certainly have touched the lorry, had I put out my hand....

Then we swept on and up and over the crest.

Thereafter all was plain sailing.

As we ran into Peyrehorade, I glanced at my watch.

I had lost my bet by about a quarter of a minute. But for the led horses, we should have run to time....

Upon one matter we were all agreed, and that was that the driver of the grey cabriolet was going much too fast.

So soon as we had pa.s.sed through the town, Berry and I changed places.

Almost immediately the road deteriorated. Its fine straightforward rolling nature was maintained: the surface, however, was in tatters....

After ten kilometres of misery, my brother-in-law slowed up and stopped. Then he turned to me.

"Have you ever driven upon this road (sic) before?"

I shook my head.

"Well, you can start now," was the reply. "I'm fed up, I am. I'd rather drive on the beach." With that he opened his door. "Oh, and give me back that cigar."

"Courage," I said, detaining him. "It can't last."

"Pardon me," said Berry, "but it can last for blistering leagues. I know these roads. Besides, my right knee's getting tremulous."

"It's quite good practice," I ventured.

"What for?" was the bitter reply. "My future estate? Possibly. I have no doubt that there it will be my blithesome duty continually to back a charabanc with a fierce clutch up an interminable equivalent of the Eiffel Tower. At present----"

"And you were driving so beautifully," said his wife.

"What--not with _finesse_?" said her husband.

"Rather," said I. "Ginger, too."

"What d'you mean--'ginger'?"--suspiciously.

"Determination," said I hurriedly.

"Not the b-b-bull-dog b-b-breed?"

"The same," said I. "All underhung.

'Shove-me-and-I'll-shove-your-face' sort of air. It was most noticeable."

Berry slammed the door and felt for the self-starter....

As we bucketed down the next slope--

"I only wish," he said, "that we could encounter the deceitful monger responsible for including this road among _les grands itineraires_. I can stand pot-holes, but the remains of a railway platform which might have been brought from one of what we know as 'the stricken areas,'

laid, like linoleum, upon a foot of brickdust, tend to make you gird at Life. Incidentally, is this fast enough for you? Or are your livers still sluggish?"