There would be pleasure as
well as profit in driving this old girl to Los Angeles, he told
himself. It fairly made his mouth water to look at her standing
there. He got in and slid behind the wheel and fingered the gear
lever, and tested the clutch and the foot brake--not because
he doubted them, but because he had a hankering to feel their
smoothness of operation. Bud loved a good car just as he had
loved a good horse in the years behind him. Just as he used to
walk around a good horse and pat its sleek shoulder and feel the
hard muscles of its trim legs, so now he made love to this big
car. Let that old hen of Foster's crab the trip south? He should
sa-a-ay not!
There did not seem to be a thing that he could do to her, but
nevertheless he got down and, gave all the grease cups a turn,
removed the number plates and put them under the rear seat
cushion, inspected the gas tank and the oil gauge and the fanbelt
and the radiator, turned back the trip-mileage to zero--
professional driving had made Bud careful as a taxi driver about
recording the mileage of a trip--looked at the clock set in
the instrument board, and pondered.
What if the old lady took a notion to drive somewhere? She
would miss the car and raise a hullabaloo, and maybe crab the
whole thing in the start.
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