The big car picked up speed on the down grade, racing along as though
the short rest had given it a fresh enthusiasm for the long road that
wound in and out and up and down and seemed to have no end. As though he
joyed in putting her over the miles, Bud drove. Came a hill, he sent her
up it with a devil-may-care confidence, swinging around curves with a
squall of the powerful horn that made cattle feeding half a mile away on
the slopes lift their startled heads and look.
"How much longer are you good for, Bud?" Foster leaned forward to ask,
his tone flattering with the praise that was in it.
"Me? As long as this old boat will travel," Bud flung back gleefully,
giving her a little more speed as they rocked over a culvert and sped
away to the next hill. He chuckled, but Foster had settled back again
satisfied, and did not notice.
Halfway up the next hill the car slowed suddenly, gave a snort, gasped
twice as Bud retarded the spark to help her out, and, died. She was
a heavy car to hold on that stiff grade, and in spite of the full
emergency brake helped out with the service brake, she inched backward
until the rear wheels came full against a hump across the road and held.
Bud did not say anything; your efficient chauffeur reserves his
eloquence for something more complex than a dead engine. He took down
the curtain on that side, leaned out into the rain and inspected the
road behind him, shifted into reverse, and backed to the bottom.
"What's wrong?" Foster leaned forward to ask senselessly.
"When I hit level ground, I'm going to find out," Bud retorted, still
watching the road and steering with one hand. "Does the old girl ever
cut up with you on hills?"
"Why--no. She never has," Foster answered dubiously.
"Reason I asked, she didn't just choke down from the pull. She went and
died on me."
"That's funny," Foster observed weakly.
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.