The green car was running an erratic course more or less in the middle of the road. Within thirty or forty yards of her Templeton insistently sounded his horn and drew over to the right, preparing to pass.  Next moment he jammed on his brake hard, with an exclamation seldom heard on his phlegmatic lips.  So far from steering to his own side of the road, the driver of the car had also pulled across to the right, with the evident intention of blocking the passage.  But for Templeton’s promptitude the bowsprit must inevitably have run into the hood of the car. The jerk threw the Irishman heavily forward over the back of the seat, and when he recovered himself he broke into violent objurgation, which had no more effect on the occupants of the car than the strident blasts of Templeton’s horn.  They did not even look round.  A turf-cutter on the moor scratched his head and gazed open-mouthed at the novel spectacle, and on the other side two affrighted ponies galloped with tossing manes and tails through and over the whins and gorse.