As she paid the check, Claire tried to think of some protest which would

have any effect on the obese wits of the restaurant man. In face of his

pink puffiness she gave it up. Her failure as a Citizeness Fixit sent

her out of the place in a fury, carried her on in a dusty whirl till the

engine spat, sounded tired and reflective, and said it guessed it

wouldn't go any farther that day.

Now that she had something to do, Claire became patient. "Run out of

gas. Isn't it lucky I got that can for an extra gallon?"

But there was plenty of gas. There was no discernible reason why the

car should not go. She started the engine. It ran for half a minute and

quit. All the plugs showed sparks. No wires were detached in the

distributor. There was plenty of water, and the oil was not clogged. And

that ended Claire's knowledge of the inside of a motor.

She stopped two motorists. The first was sure that there was dirt on the

point of the needle valve, in the carburetor. While Claire shuddered

lest he never get it back, he took out the needle valve, wiped it, put

it back--and the engine was again started, and again, with great

promptness, it stopped.

The second Good Samaritan knew that one of the wires in the distributor

must be detached and, though she assured him that she had inspected

them, he looked pityingly at her smart sports-suit, said, "Well, I'll

just take a look," and removed the distributor cover. He also scratched

his head, felt of the fuses under the cowl, scratched his cheek, poked a

finger at the carburetor, rubbed his ear, said, "Well, uh----" looked to

see if there was water and gas, sighed, "Can't just seem to find out

what's the trouble," shot at his own car, and escaped.

Claire had been highly grateful and laudatory to both of them--but she

remained here, ten miles from nowhere. It was a beautiful place. Down a

hill the wheat swam toward a village whose elevator was a glistening

tower. Mud-hens gabbled in a slew, alfalfa shone with unearthly green,

and bees went junketing toward a field of red clover. But she had the

motorist's fever to go on. The road behind and in front was very long,

very white--and very empty.

Her father, out of much thought and a solid ignorance about all of

motoring beyond the hiring of chauffeurs and the payment of bills,

suggested, "Uh, dolly, have you looked to see if these, uh---- Is the

carburetor all right?"

"Yes, dear; I've looked at it three times, so far," she said, just a

little too smoothly.

On the hill five miles to eastward, a line of dust, then a small car. As

it approached, the driver must have sighted her and increased speed. He

came up at thirty-five miles an hour.




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