The clockwork roared and raged and exploded with the sharp detonations of a machine-gun.  Sounds of violent coughing and tinkering came from the bowels of the trunk, telling that the child was still alive and busy.  Presently he emerged to breathe and wipe the oil off his nose.

“Cylinder missin’,” he announced.

I was not in the least surprised.  “Probably dropped off round that last bend,” said I.  “Very nearly did myself.  How many have we got left?”

He gaped, muttered something incoherent and plunged back into the trunk.  The noise of coughing and tinkering redoubled.  The smoke enveloped us in an evil-smelling fog.

“Think she’ll go now,” said the child, emerging once more.  He climbed back over me, grasped the helm and jerked a lever.  The car gave a dreadful shudder, but there was no other movement.

“What’s the matter now?” I asked after he had made another trip to the bows.

He informed me that the car had moulted its winding handle.

“You’ll ’ave ter push ’er till the engine starts, Sir,” said he.

“Oh, will I?  And what will you be doing, pray?” I inquired.  He replied that he was proposing to sit inside and watch events, steer, work the clutch, and so on.

“That sounds very jolly,” said I.  “All right; hop up and hold your hat on.”  I went round to the stern, set my back against it and hove—­there seemed nothing else for it.  Five hundred yards further on I stopped heaving and interviewed the passenger.  He was very hopeful.  The engine had given a few reassuring coughs, he said, and presently would resume business, he felt convinced.  Just a few more heaves, please.

I doffed my British warm and returned to the job.  A quarter of an hour later we had another talk.  All was well.  The engine had suffered a regular spasm of coughing and one back-fire, so the child informed me.  In half a jiffy we should be off.

I shed my collar, tie and tunic and bent again to the task.  At Notre Dame de la Belle Esperance we parleyed once more.  He was most enthusiastic.  Said a few kind words about the good work I was doing round at the back and thought everything was going perfectly splendidly.  The car’s cough was developing every minute and there had been two back-fires.  All the omens were propitious.  A couple of short sharp shoves would do it.  Courage, brave heart!

I reduced my attire to boots and underclothing, and toiled through Belle Esperance, 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.”