It was near Taplow station that the mutual exasperation of man and machine was brought to a crisis by the clumsy emergence of a laundry cart from a side road.  Sir Richmond was obliged to pull up smartly and stopped his engine.  It refused an immediate obedience to the electric starter.  Then it picked up, raced noisily, disengaged great volumes of bluish smoke, and displayed an unaccountable indisposition to run on any gear but the lowest.  Sir Richmond thought aloud, unpleasing thoughts.  He addressed the little car as a person; he referred to ancient disputes and temperamental incompatibilities.  His anger betrayed him a coarse, ill-bred man.  The little car quickened under his reproaches.  There were some moments of hope, dashed by the necessity of going dead slow behind an interloping van.  Sir Richmond did not notice the outstretched arm of the driver of the van, and stalled his engine for a second time.  The electric starter refused its office altogether.

For some moments Sir Richmond sat like a man of stone.

“I must wind it up,” he said at last in a profound and awful voice.  “I must wind it up.”

“I get out, don’t I?” asked the doctor, unanswered, and did so.  Sir Richmond, after a grim search and the displacement and replacement of the luggage, produced a handle from the locker at the back of the car and prepared to wind.

There was a little difficulty.  “Come up!” he said, and the small engine roared out like a stage lion.

The two gentlemen resumed their seats.  The car started and then by an unfortunate inadvertency Sir Richmond pulled the gear lever over from the first speed to the reverse.  There was a metallic clangour beneath the two gentlemen, and the car slowed down and stopped although the engine was still throbbing wildly, and the dainty veil of blue smoke still streamed forward from the back of the car before a gentle breeze.  The doctor got out almost precipitately, followed by a gaunt madman, mouthing vileness, who had only a minute or so before been a decent British citizen.  He made some blind lunges at the tremulous but obdurate car, but rather as if he looked for offences and accusations than for displacements to adjust.  Quivering and refusing, the little car was extraordinarily like some recalcitrant little old aristocratic lady in the hands of revolutionaries, and this made the behaviour of Sir Richmond seem even more outrageous than it would otherwise have done.  He stopped the engine, he went down on his hands and knees in the road to peer up at the gear-box, then without restoring the spark, he tried to wind up the engine again.  He spun the little handle with an insane violence, faster and faster for—­as it seemed to the doctor—­the better part of a minute.  Beads of perspiration appeared upon his brow and ran together; he bared his teeth in a snarl; his hat slipped over one eye.  He groaned with rage.  Then, using the starting handle as a club, he assailed the car.  He smote the brazen Mercury from its foothold and sent it and a part of the radiator cap with it flying across the road.  He beat at the wings of the bonnet, until they bent in under his blows.  Finally, he hurled the starting-handle at the wind-screen and smashed it.  The starting-handle rattled over the bonnet and fell to the ground....