Templeton’s road yacht had been for a week or two a fairly familiar object in the neighbourhood, and the few country folk on foot whom it met or passed in the first few minutes of its voyage graced it with no more attention than was evinced by a stolid stare, a shake of the head, and a sort of prolonged sigh.  A spectator of quicker mind—and he would need to have been quick, for the pace was already great—might have taken a fugitive interest in noting the facial expressions of the vehicle’s three occupants. Templeton looked earnest and responsible: Eves wore only the shadow of his usual smile, for he was oppressed by an anxious doubt whether his former experiences of yachting would serve him in handling the sail of this novel craft.  The wind was not only strong but gusty, and at slight turns in the road the boom showed a tendency to swing out of his control and commit assault and battery on the person of his passenger.  That gentleman, however, was evidently on the top of enjoyment.  Whatever his errand was, it was driven from his mind by sheer exhilaration. He lived wholly in the present.  Peering over Templeton’s shoulder at the speedometer, he reported with boyish excitement the movements of the indicator—twenty, twenty-five, thirty: "Believe you me, it’s thirty miles; the like of that, now!"