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The wind blew towards Tyler, across the car, and he felt his eyebrows frizzle.
Excuse me, young man, but your car is on fire and you’re sitting in it without burning and incidentally it’s red hot in places.
No.
Should he ask the man if he wanted him to phone the A.A.?
Instead he explained the route carefully, trying not to stare.
“That’s terrific. Much obliged,” said Crowley, as he began to wind up the window.
R. P. Tyler had to say something.
“Excuse me, young man,” he said.
“Yes?”
I mean, it’s not the kind of thing you don’t notice, your car being on fire.
A tongue of flame licked across the charred dashboard.
“Funny weather we’re having, isn’t it?” he said, lamely.
“Is it?” said Crowley. “I honestly hadn’t noticed.” And he reversed back down the country lane in his burning car.
“That’s probably because your car is on fire,” said R. P. Tyler sharply. He jerked Shutzi’s lead, dragged the little dog to heel.
To The Editor
Sir,
I would like to draw your attention to a recent tendency I have noticed for today’s young people to ignore perfectly sensible safety precautions while driving. This evening I was asked for directions by a gentleman whose car was …
No.
Driving a car that
…
No.
It was on fire …
His temper getting worse, R. P. Tyler stomped the final stretch back into the village.
“HOY!” SHOUTED R. P. TYLER. “YOUNG!”
Mr. Young was in his front garden, sitting on his deck chair, smoking his pipe.
This had more to do with Deirdre’s recent discovery of the menace of passive smoking and banning of smoking in the house than he would care to admit to his neighbors. It did not improve his temper. Neither did being addressed as Young by Mr. Tyler.
“Yes?”
“Your son, Adam.”
Mr. Young sighed. “What’s he done now?”
“Do you know where he is?”
