"Good Glory!" cried Bud, looking reproachfully in at Foster.
"What'd yuh want to stop her for?"
"I didn't!" Foster's consternation was ample proof of his
innocence. "What the devil ails the thing?"
"You tell me, and I'll fix it," Bud retorted savagely. Then he
smoothed his manner and went back to the carburetor. "Acts like
the gas kept choking off," he said, "but it ain't that. She's
O.K. I know, 'cause I've tested it clean back to tank. There's
nothing the matter with the feed--she's getting gas same as
she has all along. I can take off the mag. and see if anything's
wrong there; but I'm pretty sure there ain't. Couldn't any water
or mud get in--not with that oil pan perfect. She looks dry as
a bone, and clean. Try her again, Foster; wait till I set the
spark about right. Now, you leave it there, and give her the gas
kinda gradual, and catch her when she talks. We'll see--"
They saw that she was not going to "talk" at all. Bud swore a
little and got out more tools and went after the magneto with
grim determination. Again Foster climbed out and stood in the
drizzle and watched him. Mert crawled over into the front seat
where he could view the proceedings through the windshield. Bud
glanced up and saw him there, and grinned maliciously.
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