"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--"