Haynes used the ancient whip, which had as much effect as tickling a rhinoceros with a feather.

“Goad him with a penknife,” suggested Ansell unfeelingly.

“There must be some way,” said Haynes.  “Because they do trot, you know.”

“Speaking as one ignorant amateur to another,” I asked, “isn’t the right thing to pull gently on the reins and then slacken?  You go on doing it till the animal gets your meaning.  Try it.”

Haynes tried it, and Bucephalus stopped dead.  Repetition of the treatment simply produced a tendency to back.

“For heaven’s sake don’t lose any of the ground we’ve gained,” said Ansell.  “Let’s get on, if only at a walk.”

“We shall have to tow him,” decided Haynes.  He got out and hauled at the bridle, but Bucephalus refused to budge.

“This,” said Ansell, becoming suddenly business-like, “is where the Boy Hero modestly but firmly takes charge.  Jump in.”

He picked up the reins and, though he apparently did nothing in particular with them, Bucephalus came to life at once and broke into a lumbering trot.

“You silly chump, why didn’t you say you could drive?” asked Haynes.

“Nobody asked me,” said the Boy Hero modestly, “and I was shy.”

At the time when we had been scheduled to reach the cricket-ground we had still a mile to go along a narrow leafy road, hardly more than a lane.  The cars were overdue, and Haynes, whose haughty spirit could not brook the idea of being passed by jeering plutocrats, propounded a scheme.

“They can’t pass us unless we go into the ditch,” he explained.  “So when they come we’ll pretend to be asleep, take up the middle of the road, and simply ignore them.  We’ll get there first, after all.”

A moment later we heard the buzz of engines.  I took a hurried glance round and saw the sunlight on brasswork as the car came round a distant corner.

“It’s them,” I said.

The reins dropped slackly on Bucephalus’s back and he slowed to a walk.  Inside the governess-cart all was somnolent peace.  Behind us the car was already beginning to make remarks on one of those abusive press-the-button horns.  “You FOOL!  You FOOL!  Get OUT o’ the way!  Get OUT o’ the way!” it said.  Then we heard the car slow down and pandemonium broke loose.  The horn was reinforced by an ordinary hooter, a whistle, several human voices and, lastly, an exhaust siren.  I stole a glance at Ansell and found that he was having a good deal of surreptitious trouble in restraining our fiery steed from doing a second bolt.

“I say,” whispered Haynes in sudden agitation, “has Miss Ropes an exhaust siren?”