"Attends, attends un peu! Pour les mettre en marche,
les tacots, c'est autre chose!")
Stewart, seizing the handle, could not turn it. In the false night of
the shed the lights shone on polished lamps, on glass and brass, on
French eyes which said: "That's what comes of it!"--which were ready to
say--"March out again, Englishwomen, ridiculous and eager and defeated!"
Fanny, looking neither to right nor left, prayed under her breath
--"Stewart, Stewart we can never live in this shed if you can't
start her. And if you can't, nobody else can...."
There was a spurt of life from the engine as it back-fired, and Stewart
sprang away holding her wrist with the other hand. The lieutenant, the
brigadier, and a driver from a car near by crowded round her with
exclamations.
"You advanced the spark too much," said the driver to the _brigadier_.
"_Tenez_! I will retard it."
"She shan't touch the car again." said the lieutenant. "It is too
heavy."
"Leave the controls alone," said Stewart, scowling at the driver. "Give
me room ..." She caught the handle with her injured hand, and with a
gasp, swung the Rochet into throbbing life.
There was a murmur of voices down the shed, and each man with a slight
movement returned to the work he had been doing; the polishers polished,
the cleaners swept, and a little chink of metal on metal filled the
garage.
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