"Henry B. Boltwood, if you tried to do that---- I'm not sure. Your being
my parent might save you, but even so, I think he'd probably chase you
off the road, clear down into that chasm."
"I suppose so. Shall we have to entertain him in Seattle?"
"Have to? My dear parent, you can't keep me from it! Any of the Seattle
friends of Gene Gilson who don't appreciate that straight, fine,
aspiring boy may go---- Not overdo it, you understand. But---- Oh, take
him to the theater. By the way; shall we try to climb Mount Rainier
before----"
"See here, my good dolly; you stop steering me away from my feeble
parental efforts. Do you wish to be under obligations----"
"Don't mind, with Milt. He wouldn't charge interest, as Jeff Saxton
would. Milt is, oh, he's folks!"
"Quite true. But are we? Are you?"
"Learning to be!"
Between discussions and not making hills, Claire cleaned the spark plugs
as they accumulated carbon from the surplus oil--or she pretended to
help Milt clean them. The plugs were always very hot, and when you were
unscrewing the jacket from the core, you always burned your hand, and
wished you could swear ... and sometimes you could.
After noon, when they had left the Park and entered Gardiner, Milt
announced, "I've got to stick around a while. The key in my
steering-gear seems to be worn. May have to put in a new one. Get the
stuff at a garage here. If you wouldn't mind waiting, be awful glad to
tag, and try to give a few helping hands till the oil cleans itself
out."
"I'll just stroll on," she said, but she drove away as swiftly as she
could. Her father's worry about obligations disturbed her, and she did
not wish to seem too troublesome an amateur to Milt. She would see him
in Livingston, and tell him how well she had driven. The spark plugs
kept clean enough now so that she could command more power, but---Between the Park and the transcontinental road there are many climbs
short but severely steep; up-shoots like the humps on a scenic railway.
To tackle them with her uncertain motor was like charging a machine-gun
nest. She spent her nerve-force lavishly, and after every wild rush to
make a climb, she had to rest, to rub the suddenly aching back of her
neck. Because she was so tired, she did not take the trouble to save her
brakes by going down in gear. She let the brakes smoke while the river
and railroad below rose up at her.
There was a long drop. How long it was she did not guess, because it was
concealed by a curve at the top. She seemed to plane down forever. The
brakes squealed behind. She tried to shift to first but there was a
jarring snarl, and she could neither get into first nor back into third.
She was running in neutral, the great car coasting, while she tried to
slow it by jamming down the foot-brake. The car halted--and started on
again. The brake-lining which had been wished on her at Saddle Back was
burnt out.