But then he started to get smaller.

'Eh up,' said Clive.

The car was jumping; the road went out and in again, and this time the motor was left behind us, still moving but only just, and shrinking by the second.

'What's up?' I yelled.

'He's changing gear!' shouted Clive.

Number 1418 steamed like a witch, but our exertions had made the fire a little thin in the middle, so I began patching, calling out: 'How's he doing now?'

'Picking up the pace again,' yelled Clive, who was still hanging out the side, 'only trouble is… the bugger's on fire!'

We went into a cutting – a quick up and down – and when we came out we were beginning to lose the road. I put down my shovel and leant out to see the motorist and his smoking car spinning away backwards. Clive gave a happy shout and two screams on the whistle. He knew about motorcars but did not like them. He thought they wrecked all the fruit gardens of Halifax with their fumes. I told him I'd never seen a fruit garden in Halifax, wrecked or not.

Clive was still peering backwards along the length of the rattlers. 'They're falling out the windows!'

Folk would do that on an excursion – lean right out, and their hats would go flying. But with excitement at fever heat they never minded. Green and gold light was flashing about in our cab as we rattled around the Padiham Loop. It was a great lark, but 1418 was wearing me out – not from the amount of coal wanted, but from the need to keep braced against its rolling.

Clive turned to me and gave a big grin. He was a dapper dog. Nice necktie just crossed over, so you could never work out how it kept in place; coat not new but perfectly built… and the poacher's pockets. 'It pays a man to dress smart,' he would say; 'shabbiness is a false economy.' He once told me the best thing you can do with a pair of boots was not wear them.