So for two hours Claire and her father experienced that most distressing

of motor experiences--waiting, while the afternoon that would have been

so good for driving went by them. Every fifteen minutes they came in

from sitting on a dry-goods box in front of the garage, and never did

the repair appear to be any farther along. The boy seemed to be giving

all his time to getting the wrong wrench, and scolding the older man for

having hidden the right one.

When she had left Brooklyn Heights, Claire had not expected to have such

authoritative knowledge of the Kalifornia Kandy Kitchen, Saddle Back,

Montana, across from Tubbs' Garage, that she could tell whether they

were selling more Atharva Cigarettes or Polutropons. She prowled about

the garage till she knew every pool of dripped water in the tin pail of

soft soap in the iron sink.

She was worried by an overheard remark of the boy wonder, "Gosh, we

haven't any more of that decent brake lining. Have to use this piece of

mush." But when the car was actually done, nothing like a dubious brake

could have kept her from the glory of starting. The first miles seemed

miracles of ease and speed.

She came through the mountains into Livingston.

Kicking his heels on a fence near town, and fondling a gray cat, sat

Milt Daggett, and he yelped at her with earnestness and much noise.




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