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.
"Thunder!" said Bud, and looked around at Foster. "Do you
reckon the old boat is jinxed, just because I said I could drive
her as far as she'd go? The old rip ain't shot a cylinder since
we hit the top of the hill."
"Maybe the mixture--"
"Yeah," Bud interrupted with a secret grin, "I've been wondering
about that, and the needle valve, and the feed pipe, and a few
other little things. Well, we'll have a look."
Forthwith he climbed out into the drizzle and began a
conscientious search for the trouble. He inspected the needle
valve with much care, and had Foster on the front seat trying to
start her afterwards.
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