He spilled
a handful of little round white objects like marbles into the
tank before he screwed on the cap, and from his pocket he pulled
a little paper box, crushed it in his hand, and threw it as far
as he could into the bushes. Then, whistling just above his
breath, which was a habit with Bud when his work was going along
pleasantly, he scraped the mud off his feet, climbed in, and
drove on down the road.
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.
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