waiting out there!”
Typically, Tom Clayton said nothing whilst he weighed things up. He sat now in thought, his thick lips and square jaw all carved in one dogged pattern, his heavy-lidded brown eyes staring deeply into the empty fire-grate. He was not a good-looking man, even though his face had strength. Rather, he looked sullen and introspective—nor did his curved nose and low-growing hair tend to add any lighter tones to the portrait.
“I don’t see why I should,” he said at last, and then he resumed his supper.
“But—but, Tommy, we just can’t leave him there. He’s conscientious enough to stick with the damned car until daylight rather than risk the police or an accident. You could easily tow him home in a few minutes.”
“Why should I help him?” Clayton’s dark eyes were morosely suspicious. “You’ve been out with him most of the day.… Never a thought for me, I notice; and then you ask me to help him!”
Betty looked wide-eyed and innocent. This was her best line when things showed signs of getting out of hand. Mrs. Clayton moved over to the armchair and picked up a bundle of knitting.
Her face was expressionless as she awaited the next move. She knew her son was well able to look after his own affairs at twenty-three—and she knew Betty, too. Whether she approved of Betty or not she had never said.
“Can’t be done,” Clayton decided, after further reflection.
“But Tommy, you’ll make me break my promise to Herby!” Betty looked at the floor and played with her fingers. “Of course he said you’d never do anything to help him, so this isn’t much of a surprise really.”
Clayton threw down his cutlery. “He said that? By what right? I run a garage, don’t I? I suppose he was trying to make out that I don’t know my job, or something?”
“He didn’t exactly say you didn’t know your job. He just sort of knows you don’t like him.”
Clayton got to his feet and crossed to the empty fireplace, stood staring into the grate.
“Are you going or not?” Betty asked abruptly.
Clayton turned. “I’ll go, Betty, but understand that I am only doing it because I have a regard for you, and not for Herby’s sake! I’ll charge him double. I also want it understood that you will give me a chance to take you out next time.”
Betty shrugged. “All right, why not?” She felt disinclined to point out that he never took a half-day off.
“Very well. I’ll see you to your door and then I’ll get the truck out.… Mother, put that stew back until I return. He glanced up at the clock. “Quarter to twelve. I should be back by about midnight—or twelve-fifteen at the latest.”
* * * *
Curiously enough, Betty’s mental vision of Herbert Pollitt had been startlingly accurate. After she had departed he actually did turn up his coat collar and give a little shiver; then he started to try and make a repair by the feel of the broken ignition wire. It was perhaps twenty minutes after Betty’s sauntering exit that there came the sound of double-note whistling and a light appeared down the lane from the direction of Lexham.
Immediately Herbert hurried to the back of his car and waved his hands in warning. The whistling stopped and a familiar voice came from behind the dazzlingly bright dynamo-driven cycle lamp.
“Herby! All by yourself m the starlight! Your damned lights are nearly out.…”
Vincent Grey pulled the brakes up sharp on his pedal cycle and the lamp died out. The dim starshine revealed him, blond-headed, in a thick white woollen sweater with roll collar and corduroy cycling trousers. Herbert could picture that round, good-humoured face—grinning and scornful.
“Hello, Vince…,” Herbert growled as he turned away. “I should have recognized you by your damned whistling.”
“Just cycling home from Lexham,” Vincent Grey explained. “I play chess now and again with an old pal of mine over there. But what happened to you? Breakdown?”
“Ignition. I—I had Betty with me. She’s gone on ahead to ask Tom Clayton to come and tow me in.”
“Betty? Oh, you had—had you?”
Herbert climbed into the back seat of the car and sprawled in a corner. Vincent leaned his bicycle carefully against the wing—chiefly to avoid scratching his bicycle. Then he clambered in at the other door and plumped into the upholstery. For a moment or two he sat breathing hard.
“Can’t think what Betty sees in you!” he said finally.
“Been out with her since dinner,” Herbert said, glowing with an inner pride. “She’s a grand girl!”
“I know; I’ve been out with her myself. But I don’t much like the way she walks out on me and takes up with you. It’s—flighty,” he decided.
“There’s nothing flighty about Betty, Vince. She only goes with me because she knows whom she can trust. You expect too much of a girl. I believe in slowly advancing into favour.”
“Then you’re crazy! Here—have a cigarette. It won’t make you drop dead…I’m afraid.”
Herbert took one and their two faces shone like masks for a moment as Vincent’s lighter flared in the windless air. Then they were silent again, blowing smoke at the gnats flying near them
“So,” Vincent resumed, “you take Betty out for the afternoon, your old tub won’t stand up to it, and then you send her to our worst rival for assistance! Ye gods! I’d have pushed the darned car to Langhorn myself before I’d have taken that chance!”
“What chance?” Herbert followed the trail of another meteor in the south.
“Well, if she’ll walk out on me to go with you, what’s to stop her walking out on both of us to play games with Tommy Clayton? I used to think Betty was a one-man girl, and that I was the one man. Now I know better— She’s no good for a rising citizen like me; I’ll cut her out from now on—”
“Take it easy,” Herbert warned, straightening up.
“I’ll say exactly what I like,” Vincent stated calmly. “You don’t approve of me and I’m not enamoured of you. We’ve never thought much of each other since we knew Betty liked both of us—or rather that she appeared to do. So I say she’s no good; and if you’ve any sense, you’ll agree with me.”
Herbert relaxed with a morose frown. Men have quarrelled about women since Adam took forty winks, and they will probably go on doing it until atomic bombs settle the argument conclusively.
“I can’t think that Betty would.…” Herbert’s voice trailed off into a weak emphasis. He really loved Betty, absolutely for herself. He knew that for all her seeming coquetry, there was a sterling worth somewhere in her, and he wanted the chance to find it in his own diffident way.
“Look here,” he said, “if I could get this darned car to work, we could go on into Langhorn and just see what has happened. I’m willing to wager that Betty gets Tom to dig me out—you think she will do nothing of the sort but, instead, fix a date
