We had almost reached the end of it, when it
entered the head of a stray puppy dog to pause in the act of
crossing and sit down in the middle and hunt for fleas. To spare
the abominable mongrel, Marigold made a sudden swerve. Of course
the car skidded. It skidded all over the place, as if it were
drunk, and, aided by Marigold, described a series of ghastly half-
circles. At last he performed various convulsive feats of
jugglery, with the result that the car, which was nosing steadily
for the ditch, came to a stand-still. Then Marigold informed me
in unemotional tones that the steering gear had gone.
"It's all the fault of that there dog," said he, twisting his head
so as to glare at the little beast, who, after a yelp and a bound,
had calmly recaptured his position and resumed his interrupted
occupation.
"It's all the fault of that there Marigold," I retorted, "who
can't see the sense of using studded tyres on a greasy surface.
What's to be done now?"
Marigold thrust his hand beneath his wig and scratched his head.
He didn't exactly know. He got out and stared intently at the car.
If mind could have triumphed over matter, the steering gear would
have become disfractured.
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