The
North Downs were hidden, far away beyond the Wealden Heights.
Down below was the little village of Cocking, and half-way up the
hill, a mile perhaps to the right, hung a flock of sheep grazing
together. Overhead an anxious peewit circled against the blue,
and every now and then emitted its feeble cry. Up here the heat
was tempered by a pleasant breeze. Mr. Hoopdriver was possessed
by unreasonable contentment; he lit himself a cigarette and
lounged more comfortably. Surely the Sussex ale is made of the
waters of Lethe, of poppies and pleasant dreams. Drowsiness
coiled insidiously about him.
He awoke with a guilty start, to find himself sprawling prone on
the turf with his cap over one eye. He sat up, rubbed his eyes,
and realised that he had slept. His head was still a trifle
heavy. And the chase? He jumped to his feet and stooped to pick.
up his overturned machine. He whipped out his watch and saw that
it was past two o'clock. "Lord love us, fancy that!--But the
tracks'll be all right," said Mr. Hoopdriver, wheeling his
machine back to the chalky road. "I must scorch till I overtake
them."
He mounted and rode as rapidly as the heat and a lingering
lassitude permitted. Now and then he had to dismount to examine
the surface where the road forked. He enjoyed that rather.
"Trackin'," he said aloud, and decided in the privacy of his own
mind that he had a wonderful instinct for 'spoor.' So he came
past Goodwood station and Lavant, and approached Chichester
towards four o'clock.
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