ting no disaster, and it
was only on the crest of the downs between Wrotham and Kingsdown that
disaster came.

They had come up the hill in the twilight; Bert was anxious to get as
far as possible before he lit--or attempted to light, for the issue
was a doubtful one--his lamps, and they had scorched past a number of
cyclists, and by a four-wheeled motor-car of the old style lamed by a
deflated tyre. Some dust had penetrated Bert's horn, and the result was
a curious, amusing, wheezing sound had got into his "honk, honk." For
the sake of merriment and glory he was making this sound as much as
possible, and Edna was in fits of laughter in the trailer. They made a
sort of rushing cheerfulness along the road that affected their fellow
travellers variously, according to their temperaments. She did notice a
good lot of bluish, evil-smelling smoke coming from about the
bearings between his feet, but she thought this was one of the natural
concomitants of motor-traction, and troubled no more about it, until
abruptly it burst into a little yellow-tipped flame.

"Bert!" she screamed.

But Bert had put on the brakes with such suddenness that she found
herself involved with his leg as he dismounted. She got to the side of
the road and hastily readjusted her hat, which had suffered.

"Gaw!" said Bert.

He stood for some fatal seconds watching the petrol drip and catch, and
the flame, which was now beginning to smell of enamel as well as oil,
spread and grew. His chief idea was the sorrowful one that he had not
sold the machine second-hand a year ago, and that he ought to have done
so--a good idea in its way, but not immediately helpful. He turned upon
Edna sharply. "Get a lot of wet sand," he said. Then he wheeled the
machine a little towards the side of the roadway, and laid it down and
looked about for a supply of wet sand. The flames received this as a
helpful attention, and made the most of it. They seemed to brighten and
the twilight to deepen about them. The road was a flinty road in the
chalk country, and ill-provided with sand.

Edna accosted a short, fat cyclist. "We want wet sand," she said, and
added, "our motor's on fire." The short, fat cyclist stared blankly for
a moment, then with a helpful cry began to scrabble in the road-grit.
Whereupon Bert and Edna also scrabbled in the road-grit. Other cyclists
arrived, dismounted and stood about, and their flame-lit faces expressed
satisfaction, interest, curiosity. "Wet