Part 4 (1/2)

On the level Bud went into neutral and pressed the self-starter with a pessimistic deliberation. He got three chugs and a backfire into the carburetor, and after that silence. He tried it again, coaxing her with the spark and throttle. The engine gave a snort, hesitated and then, quite suddenly, began to throb with docile regularity that seemed to belie any previous intention of ”cutting up.”

Bud fed her the gas and took a run at the hill. She went up like a thoroughbred and died at the top, just when the road had dipped into the descent. Bud sent her down hill on compression, but at the bottom she refused to find her voice again when he turned on the switch and pressed the accelerator. She simply rolled down to the first incline and stopped there like a balky mule.

”Thunder!” said Bud, and looked around at Foster. ”Do you reckon the old boat is jinxed, just because I said I could drive her as far as she'd go? The old rip ain't shot a cylinder since we hit the top of the hill.”

”Maybe the mixture--”

”Yeah,” Bud interrupted with a secret grin, ”I've been wondering about that, and the needle valve, and the feed pipe, and a few other little things. Well, we'll have a look.”

Forthwith he climbed out into the drizzle and began a conscientious search for the trouble. He inspected the needle valve with much care, and had Foster on the front seat trying to start her afterwards. He looked for short circuit. He changed the carburetor adjustment, and Foster got a weary chug-chug that ceased almost as soon as it had begun.

He looked all the spark plugs over, he went after the vacuum feed and found that working perfectly. He stood back, finally, with his hands on his hips, and stared at the engine and shook his head slowly twice.

Foster, in the driver's seat, swore and tried again to start it. ”Maybe if you cranked it,” he suggested tentatively.

”What for? The starter turns her over all right. Spark's all right too, strong and hot. However--” With a sigh of resignation Bud got out what tools he wanted and went to work. Foster got out and stood around, offering suggestions that were too obvious to be of much use, but which Bud made it a point to follow as far as was practicable.

Foster said it must be the carburetor, and Bud went relentlessly after the carburetor. He impressed Foster with the fact that he knew cars, and when he told Foster to get in and try her again, Foster did so with the air of having seen the end of the trouble. At first it did seem so, for the engine started at once and worked smoothly until Bud had gathered his wrenches off the running board and was climbing it, when it slowed down and stopped, in spite of Foster's frantic efforts to keep it alive with spark and throttle.

”Good Glory!” cried Bud, looking reproachfully in at Foster. ”What'd yuh want to stop her for?”

”I didn't!” Foster's consternation was ample proof of his innocence.

”What the devil ails the thing?”

”You tell me, and I'll fix it,” Bud retorted savagely. Then he smoothed his manner and went back to the carburetor. ”Acts like the gas kept choking off,” he said, ”but it ain't that. She's O.K. I know, 'cause I've tested it clean back to tank. There's nothing the matter with the feed--she's getting gas same as she has all along. I can take off the mag. and see if anything's wrong there; but I'm pretty sure there ain't.

Couldn't any water or mud get in--not with that oil pan perfect. She looks dry as a bone, and clean. Try her again, Foster; wait till I set the spark about right. Now, you leave it there, and give her the gas kinda gradual, and catch her when she talks. We'll see--”

They saw that she was not going to ”talk” at all. Bud swore a little and got out more tools and went after the magneto with grim determination.

Again Foster climbed out and stood in the drizzle and watched him. Mert crawled over into the front seat where he could view the proceedings through the winds.h.i.+eld. Bud glanced up and saw him there, and grinned maliciously. ”Your friend seems to love wet weather same as a cat does,”

he observed to Foster. ”He'll be terrible happy if you're stalled here till you get a tow in somewhere.”

”It's your business to see that we aren't stalled,” Mert snapped at him viciously. ”You've got to make the thing go. You've got to!”

”Well, I ain't the Almighty,” Bud retorted acidly. ”I can't perform miracles while yuh wait.”

”Starting a cranky car doesn't take a miracle,” whined Mert. ”Anybody that knows cars--”

”She's no business to be a cranky car,” Foster interposed pacifically.

”Why, she's practically new!” He stepped over a puddle and stood beside Bud, peering down at the silent engine. ”Have you looked at the intake valve?” he asked pathetically.

”Why, sure. It's all right. Everything's all right, as far as I can find out.” Bud looked Foster straight in the eye--and if his own were a bit anxious, that was to be expected.

”Everything's all right,” he added measuredly. ”Only, she won't go.” He waited, watching Foster's face.

Foster chewed a corner of his lip worriedly. ”Well, what do you make of it?” His tone was helpless.

Bud threw out his two hands expressively, and shook his head. He let down the hood, climbed in, slid into the driver's seat, and went through the operation of starting. Only, he didn't start. The self-starter hummed as it spun the flywheel, but nothing whatever was elicited save a profane phrase from Foster and a growl from Mert. Bud sat back flaccid, his whole body owning defeat.

”Well, that means a tow in to the nearest shop,” he stated, after a minute of dismal silence. ”She's dead as a doornail.”