Lost trumpet

JO THE LOST TRUMPET
he’s learning. . . . Oh, hell, not that knob ! That’s
acceleration. . . . With the right foot, man, the
right foot!”
Huebsch braked. The two donkeys, making
Cairowards laden with vegetables, swerved in panic.
The objurgations of their master melted away behind
us. Marrot leant back with a sigh.
“He’s never before had time to learn steering, so
I thought I’d put him on to it this morning.”
Like a schoolboy, my spirits were rising in the
wild exhilaration of the lunatic ride. I closed my
eyes as a tramcar rushed upon us, towered above
us, repented and flashed past. “He appears—an
enthusiastic pupil.”
“He’d learn anything, Huebsch.”
The ferocity of our career through the Cairene
streets gradually lessened in degree. By the time
we came to the Ministry the great face and neck of
Huebsch though beaded with perspiration were no
longer knotted with anxiety. He decanted himself.
We followed suit. The automobile groaned its
relief.
Huebsch smiled at me his slow, gigantic smile,
his curving nose outjutting from his face like the
beak of a benevolent vulture. “Say, Colonel, guess
I deserve a medal.”
Marrot was brushing the dust from his hair. “If
you’d asked that donkey-driver he’d have said you
deserved shooting.”
Huebsch pondered this; shook his head. “He
wasn’t in danger—much.” He turned again to me.