."

"That's all very well, miss," retorted my gloomy goblin; "but soldiers
have to fight _men_, not _beasts_."

"They get killed sometimes," said I.

"There's things makes a man _want_ to die," groaned he. And that
silenced me, even though I heard a ceaseless mumbling about "every
bloomin' screw being loose; that he'd engaged as a mechanic, not a
car-maker; that if he _was_ a car-maker, he was hanged if he'd disgrace
himself making one of _this_ sort, anyhow."

You'll think I'm exaggerating, but I vow we had not gone more than ten
miles further before that chain broke again. This time I believe Rattray
shed tears. As for Aunt Mary, her attitude was that of cold, Christian
resignation. She had sacrificed herself to me, and would continue to do
so, since such was her Duty, with a capital D; indeed, she had expected
this, and from the first she had told me, etc., etc. At last the chain
was forced on again and fastened with a new bolt. We sped forward for a
few deceitful moments, but--detail is growing monotonous. After that
something happened to the car, on the average, every hour. Chains
snapped or came off; if belts didn't break, they were too short or too
long. Mysterious squeaks made themselves heard; the crank-head got hot
(what head wouldn't?), and we had to wait until it thought fit to cool,
a process which could scarcely be accelerated by Rattray's language. He
now announced that this make of car, and my specimen in particular, was
_the_ vilest in the automobile world. If a worse _could_ be made, it did
not yet exist! When I ventured to inquire why he had not expressed this
opinion before leaving London, he announced that it was not his business
to express opinions, but to drive such vehicles as he was engaged to
drive. I hoped that there must be something wrong with the automobile
which Rattray didn't understand; that in Paris I could have it put
right, and that even yet all might go well. For a few miles we went with
reasonable speed, and no mishaps; but half-way up a long, long hill the
mystic "power" vanished once more, and there we were stranded nearly
opposite a forge, from which strolled three huge, black-faced men,
adorned with pitying smiles.

"Hire them to push," I said despairingly to Rattray, and as he turned a
sulky back to obey, I heard a whirring sound, and an automobile flew
past us up the steep hill, going about fifteen miles an hour. That did
seem the last straw; and with hatred, malice, and