He had his own landau.I can se●e him now sitting behind the wheel with a ●big moustache.Colonel Scobie, M.
C.A Lancer he ▓was.My mother sat beside him, old man.Neve●r left his side, not even for road race▓s.She used to act as his mechanic.The newspap▓ers always had pictures of them at the▓ start, sitting up there in bee-kee●per’s veils — God knows why the pio●neers al
ways wore those huge veils.Dust, ▓I suppose.’ The veils had pro▓ved their undoing.Rounding a hairpin in th●e old London-Brighton road-race his father’s ve●il had been sucked into the front axle of th●e car they were driving.He had been dragge▓d into the road, whil
e his com●panion had careered on to smash▓ headlong into a tree.‘The only consola▓tion is that that is just how ●he would have liked to go out.They were l●eading by quarter of a mile.’ I have ●always been very fond of ludicrou▓s deaths and had great difficulty●
in containing my laughter as Scobie de▓scribed this misadventure to▓ me with portentous rotation▓s of his glass eye.Yet as he talke●d and I