Torchy and Vee
enjoyin' every minute of it, though. He makes funny cracks, whistles,
and now and then breaks into song.
"Driving a car seems to go to his head," remarks Miss McLeod. "It
appears to make him wild." "It does," says Barry. "For----
I'm a wild prairie flower,
I grow wilder hour by hour.
Nobody cares to cultivate me,
I'm wild. Whe-e-e-e!"
He warbles that for the next five minutes, until Miss McLeod suggests
that it's time for lunch.
"Let's stop at the next shady place we come to," says she.
"Oh, bother!" says Barry. "Just when Adelbaran is striking his best
pace. Why not take our nourishment on the fly?"
So she gets out the sandwiches and the thermos bottle and we take it
that way. Rather than let Barry take either hand off the wheel she feeds
him herself, even if he does complain about gettin' his countenance
smeared up with mustard some. Anyway, we didn't lose any time if we did
spill more or less of the coffee.
"Cheerie oh!" sings out Barry, readin' a sign board. "Only twenty miles
more!"
"But such up-and-downy miles!" says Ann.
She was dead right about that, for the further we got into New Hampshire
the more the road looked like it had been built by a roller coaster fan.
I always had a notion this was a small state, from the way it looks on
the map, but I'll bet if it could be rolled flat once it would spread
out near as big as Texas. All we did was to climb up and up and then
slide down and down. Generally at the bottom was one of these covered
wooden bridges, like a hay barn with both ends knocked out, and the way
we'd roar through those was enough to make you think you was goin'
forward with a barrage. Then just ahead would be another long hill
windin' up to the top of the world.
"Only five miles to go!" sings out Barry at last, along about three
o'clock. "Now, Ann, it's nearly time for you to be saying a few kind
words to Adelbaran and me."
"I'll be thinking them up," says Ann.
Perhaps she did. I can't say. For it was somewhere in the middle of the
second or third hill after this that the little roadster began to
splutter and cough like it had swallowed a monkey wrench.
"Come, come now, Adelbaran!" says Barry coaxin'. "Don't go misbehaving
at this late hour. Remember the women singing in the tents, the palm
waving over the----"
"Barry," says Ann, "something has gone wrong with your engine."
"Say not so," says Barry, steppin' on the accelerator careless.
"But I'm sure!" says Ann. "There!"
With a final cough the thing has quit cold. All Barry can seem to do
though is to jiggle the spark and look surprised. "Why--why, that's
odd!" says he.
"Yes, but sitting here isn't going to help," says Miss McLeod. "Get out
and see what's happened. Come on."
And while she's liftin' the hood and pawin' around among the wires and
things, with Barry lookin' on puzzled and helpless, I sort of wanders
about inspectin' Adelbaran curious. It's some relic, all right, and my
guess is that it was assembled by a cross-eyed mechanic from choice
pieces he rescued off'm a scrap heap. All of a sudden I notices
something peculiar.
"Say, folks," I calls out, "where's the gas tank on this chariot?"
"Why, it's on the back," says Barry.
"Well, it ain't now," says I. "It's gone."
"Gone!" echoes Ann. "The gas tank? Oh, that can't be possible."
"Take a look," says I.
And sure enough, when they comes around all they can find is the rusted
straps that held it in place and the feed pipe twisted off short.
"Ha, ha!" says Barry. "How utterly absurd. I've rattled off a lot of
things before, but never the gas tank. And I suppose that's rather
important to have."
"Quite," says Ann. "One doesn't go motoring nowadays without one."
"But--but what's to be done?" says Barry. "I simply must get to Birch
Crest in time to play the wedding march. The ceremony is to be at 4:30,
you know, and here we are----"
"I should say," breaks in Ann, "that we'd better find that tank and see
if we can't screw it on or something. It can't be far behind, of
course."
That seemed sensible enough. So we spreads out across the road and goes
scoutin' down the hill. Didn't seem likely a thing as big as that could
hide itself completely, even if it had bounced off into the bushes. But
we got clear to the bottom without findin' so much as its track. On we
goes, pawin' through the bushes, scoutin' the ditches on both sides, and
peekin' behind trees.
"Come, little tankey, come to your master," calls Barry persuasive. Then
he tries whistlin' for it.
"Well, we're sure to find it somewhere down that next hill," says Ann.
"Probably near that water-break where you gave us such a hard jolt."
But we didn't. In fact, we scouted back over the road for nearly a mile
with no signs of the bloomin' thing.
"Then we've missed it," finally decides Ann. "Of course no car could run
this far without gas."
"You don't know Adelbaran," says Barry. "He's quite used to running
without things. I've trained him to do it."
"Barry, this is no time to be funny," says she. "Now you take the left
side going back. I'll bet you overlooked it."
Well, we made a regular drag-net on the return trip, scourin' the bushes
for twenty feet on either side, but no tank turns up.
"Looks like we were stranded," says I, as we fetches up at the roadster
once more.
Miss Ann McLeod, though, ain't one to give up easy. Besides, she's had
all that efficiency trainin'.
"I don't suppose you carry such a thing as an emergency can of gasoline
anywhere in the car?" she asks Barry.
"I'm sure I don't know," says he. "The fellow in the garage insisted on
selling me a lot of stuff once. It's all stowed under the seat."
"Let's see," says she, liftin' out the cushion. "Why yes, here it is--a
whole quart. And a little funnel, too. Now if we could pour enough into
the feed pipe to fill the carburetor----"
It was a grand little scheme, only the funnel end was too big to fit
into the feed pipe.
"Any tire tape?" demands Ann.
Barry thought there was, but we couldn't find it. Then he remembered
he'd used it to wrap the handle of his tennis racquet once.
"I got some gum," says I.
"The very thing!" says Ann. "It must be chewed first though. Here,
Barry, take two or three pieces."
"But I don't care for gum," says Barry. "Really!"
"If you don't wish to spend the night here, chew--and chew fast," says
Ann.
So he chewed. We all chewed. And with the three fresh gobs Ann did a
first aid plumbin' job that didn't look so worse. She got the funnel so
it would stick on the pipe.
"But it must be held there," she announces. "I'll tell you, Barry; you
will have to hang out over the back and keep the funnel in place with
one hand and pour in the gas with the other, while I drive."
"Oh, I say!" says Barry. "I'd look nice, wouldn't I?"
"Torchy will hold you by the legs to keep you from falling off," she
goes on. "Come, unbutton the back curtain and roll it up. There! Now out
you go. And don't spill a drop, mind."
It sure was an ingenious way of feedin' gas to an engine, and I had my
doubts about whether it would work or not. But it does. First thing I
knew we'd started off with a roar and were tearin' up the hill on
second. We made the top, too.
"Now hold tight and save the gas," sings out Ann. "I'm going to coast
down this one full tilt."
Which she does. Barry bounces around a lot on his elbows and stomach,
but I had a firm grip on his legs and we didn't lose him off.
"More gas now!" calls Ann as we hits the bottom.
"Ouch! My tummy!" groans Barry.
"Never mind," says Ann. "Only three miles more."
Say, it was the weirdest automobilin' I ever did, but Ann ran with
everything wide open and we sure were coverin' the distance. Once we
passed a big tourin' car full of young folks and as we went by they
caught sight of Barry, actin' as substitute gas tank, and they all
turned to give him the haw-haw.
"Probably they--they think I--I'm doing this on a bub-bet," says Barry.
"I--I wish I were. I--I'd pay."
"Store ahead!" announces Ann. "Perhaps we can get some more gas."
It was a good guess. We fills the can and starts on again, with less
than two miles to go. I think Barry must have been a bit reckless with
that last quart for we hadn't gone more'n a mile before the engine
begins to choke and splutter. We were almost to the top of a hill, too.
"Gas all gone," says Barry, tryin' to climb back in.
"Go back!" says Ann. "Take the funnel off and blow in the feed pipe.
There! That's it. Keep on blowing."
You couldn't beat Ann. The machine takes a fresh spurt, we makes the top
of the hill, and halfway down the other side we sees Birch Crest. Hanged
if we don't roll right up to the front door too, before the engine gives
its last gasp, and Barry, covered with dust and red in the face, is
hauled in. We're only half an hour late, at that.
Course, the whole weddin' party is out there to see our swell finish.
They'd been watchin' for us this last hour, wonderin' what had happened,
and now they crowds around to ask Barry why he arrives hangin' over the
back that way. And you should have heard 'em roar when they gets the
explanation.
"See!" says Barry on the side to Ann. "I told you folks would laugh at
me."
"Poor boy!" says Miss McLeod, hookin' her arm into his. "Don't mind. I
think you were perfectly splendid about it."
"By Jove, though! Do you?" says he. "Would--would you risk another ride
with me, Ann? I know Adelbaran didn't show up very well but----"
"But your disposition did," cuts in Ann. "And if you're going to insist
on driving around the country in such a rattle-trap machine I--I think
I'd better be with you--always."
And say, I don't think I ever heard so much pep thrown into the weddin'
march as when Barry Crane pumps it out that afternoon. He's wearin' a
broad grin, too.
Soon as I has a chance I whispers the news to Vee. "Really?" says she.
"Isn't that fine! And I must say Barry is a lucky chap."
"Well, he's some whizz himself," says I. "Bound to be or else he
couldn't run a car a mile and a half just on his breath."
CHAPTER XIV
SUBBING FOR THE BOSS
How's that? Has something happened to me? Course there has. Something
generally does, and if I ever get to the point where it don't I hope I
shall have pep enough left to use the self-starter. Uh-huh. That's the
way I give the hail to a new day--grinnin' and curious.
Now some folks I know of works it just opposite, and they may be right,
too. Mr. Piddie, our office manager, for instance. He's always afraid
something will happen to him. I've heard him talk about it enough. Not
just accidents that might leave him an ambulance case, or worse, but
anything that don't come in his reg'lar routine; little things, like
forgettin' his commutation ticket, or gettin' lost in Brooklyn, or
havin' his new straw lid blow under a truck and walkin' bareheaded a few
blocks. Say, I'll bet he won't like it in Heaven if he can't punch a
time card every mornin', or if they shift him around much to different
harp sections.
While me, I ain't worryin' what tomorrow will be like if it's only some
different from yesterday. And generally it is. Take this last little
whirl of mine. I'll admit it leaves me a bit dizzy in the head, like
I'd been side-swiped by a passing event. Also my pride had had a bump
when I didn't know I had such a thing. Maybe that's why I look so dazed.
What led up to it all was a little squint into the past that me and Old
Hickory indulged in here a week or so back. I'd been openin' the mornin'
mail, speedy and casual as a first-class private sec. ought to do, and
sortin' it into the baskets, when I runs across this note which should
have been marked "Personal." I'd only glanced at the "Dear old pal"