The doctor got out almost precipitately, followed by a gaunt madman,
mouthing vileness, who had only a minute or so before been a decent
British citizen. He made some blind lunges at the tremulous but obdurate
car, but rather as if he looked for offences and accusations than for
displacements to adjust. Quivering and refusing, the little car was
extraordinarily like some recalcitrant little old aristocratic lady
in the hands of revolutionaries, and this made the behaviour of Sir
Richmond seem even more outrageous than it would otherwise have done. He
stopped the engine, he went down on his hands and knees in the road to
peer up at the gear-box, then without restoring the spark, he tried
to wind up the engine again. He spun the little handle with an insane
violence, faster and faster for--as it seemed to the doctor--the better
part of a minute. Beads of perspiration appeared upon his brow and ran
together; he bared his teeth in a snarl; his hat slipped over one eye.
He groaned with rage. Then, using the starting handle as a club, he
assailed the car. He smote the brazen Mercury from its foothold and sent
it and a part of the radiator cap with it flying across the road. He
beat at the wings of the bonnet, until they bent in under his blows.
Finally, he hurled the starting-handle at the wind-screen and smashed
it.
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