How was it
to be done? Something behind the gate seemed to flutter. The man
must be got rid of anyhow.
"I say," said Hoopdriver, with an inspiration, "can you get me a
screwdriver?"
The man simply walked across the shed, opened and shut a box, and
came up to the kneeling Hoopdriver with a screwdriver in his
hand. Hoopdriver felt himself a lost man. He took the screwdriver
with a tepid "Thanks," and incontinently had another inspiration.
"I say," he said again.
"Well?"
"This is miles too big."
The man lit the lantern, brought it up to Hoopdriver and put it
down on the ground. "Want a smaller screwdriver?" he said.
Hoopdriver had his handkerchief out and sneezed a prompt ATICHEW.
It is the orthodox thing when you wish to avoid recognition. "As
small as you have," he said, out of his pocket handkerchief.
"I ain't got none smaller than that," said the ostler.
"Won't do, really," said Hoopdriver, still wallowing in his
handkerchief.
"I'll see wot they got in the 'ouse, if you like, sir," said the
man. "If you would," said Hoopdriver. And as the man's heavily
nailed boots went clattering down the yard, Hoopdriver stood up,
took a noiseless step to the lady's machine, laid trembling hands
on its handle and saddle, and prepared for a rush.
The scullery door opened momentarily and sent a beam of warm,
yellow light up the road, shut again behind the man, and
forthwith Hoopdriver rushed the machines towards the gate. A dark
grey form came fluttering to meet him.
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