or rest.
'You might hurry it up, at that,' he added, and Jake spun the crank.
Priscilla made no response, not even a cough to encourage Jake as he
wound the crank frantically.
After a full minute, Jake staggered back gasping, and doubled over with
hands on his knees as he sucked for air.
'This bloody infernal machine-' Gareth began, but Jake straightened up
with genuine alarm.
'Don't start swearing at her, or she'll never start,' he cautioned
Gareth, and he stooped to the crank handle again. 'Come along now, my
darling,' he whispered, and threw his weight on the crank.
Gareth took another quick glance over his shoulder. The bizarre
procession was closer, much closer. He leaned out of the driver's
hatch and patted Priscilla's engine-cowling tenderly.
'There's my love,' he crooned. 'Come along, my beauty.' The
Count's hunting party sat out in collapsible camp chairs under the
screens, double canvas to protect them from the cruel sun. The mess
servants served iced drinks and light refreshments, and a random breeze
that flapped the canvas occasionally was sufficient to keep the
temperature bearable.
The Count was in an expansive mood, host to half a dozen of his
officers, all of them dressed in casual hunting clothes, armed with a
selection of sporting rifles and the occasional service rifle.
'I think we can rely on better sport today. I believe that our beaters
will be trying harder, after my gentle admonitions.' He smiled and
winked, and his officers laughed dutifully. 'Indeed, I am hoping-'
'My Count. My Count.' Gino rushed breathlessly into the tent like a
frenzied gnome. 'They are coming. We have seen them from the
ridge.'
'Ah!' said the Count with deep satisfaction. 'Shall we go down and
see what our gallant Captain of tanks has for us this time?' And he
drained the glass of white Wine in his hand, while Gino rushed over to
help him to his feet, and then backed away in front of him, leading him
to where Giuseppe was hastily removing the dust covers from the
Rolls.
The small procession, headed by the Count's Rolls, Royce, wound down
the slope of the low ridge to where the blinds had been sited in a line
across the width of the shallow valley. The blinds had been built by
the battalion engineers, dug into the red earth so as not to stand too
high above the low desert scrub. They were neatly thatched,
covered against the sun, with loopholes from which to fire upon the
driven game. There were comfortable camp chairs for those long waits
between drives, a small but well-stocked bar, ice in insulated
buckets,
a separate screened latrine in fact all the comforts to make the day's
sport more enjoyable.
The Count's blind was in the centre of the line. It was the largest
and most luxuriously appointed, situated so that the great majority of
driven game would bunch upon this point. His junior officers had
earlier learned the folly of exceeding the Colonel's'
