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.
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