Cabin Fever by B. M. Bower (bill gates book recommendations .txt) 📕

it,” he suggested tentatively.

“What for? The starter turns her over all right. Spark's all right too, strong and hot. However—” With a sigh of resignation Bud got out what tools he wanted and went to work. Foster got out and stood around, offering suggestions that were too obvious to be of much use, but which Bud made it a point to follow as far as was practicable.

Foster said it must be the carburetor, and Bud went relentlessly after the carburetor. He impressed Foster with the fact that he knew cars, and when he told Foster to get in and try her again, Foster did so with the air of having seen the end of the trouble. At first it did seem so, for the engine started at once and worked smoothly until Bud had gathered his wrenches off the running board and was climbing it, when it slowed down and stopped, in spite of Foster's frantic efforts to keep it alive with spark and throttle.

“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. “Your friend seems to love wet weather same as a cat does,” he observed to Foster. “He'll be terrible happy if you're stalled here till you get a tow in somewhere.”

“It's your business to see that we aren't stalled,” Mert snapped at him viciously. “You've got to make the thing go. You've got to!”

“Well, I ain't the Almighty,” Bud retorted acidly. “I can't perform miracles while yuh wait.”

“Starting a cranky car doesn't take a miracle,” whined Mert. “Anybody that knows cars—”

“She's no business to be a cranky car,” Foster interposed pacifically. “Why, she's practically new!” He stepped over a puddle and stood beside Bud, peering down at the silent engine. “Have you looked at the intake valve?” he asked pathetically.

“Why, sure. It's all right. Everything's all right, as far as I can find out.” Bud looked Foster straight in the eye—and if his own were a bit anxious, that was to be expected.

“Everything's all right,” he added measuredly. “Only, she won't go.” He waited, watching Foster's face.

Foster chewed a corner of his lip worriedly. “Well, what do you make of it?” His tone was helpless.

Bud threw out his two hands expressively, and shook his head. He let down the hood, climbed in, slid into the driver's seat, and went through the operation of starting. Only, he didn't start. The self-starter hummed as it spun the flywheel, but nothing whatever was elicited save a profane phrase from Foster and a growl from Mert. Bud sat back flaccid, his whole body owning defeat.

“Well, that means a tow in to the nearest shop,” he stated, after a minute of dismal silence. “She's dead as a doornail.”

Mert sat back in his corner of the seat, muttering into his collar. Foster looked at him, looked at Bud, looked at the car and at the surrounding hills. He seemed terribly depressed and at the same time determined to make the best of things. Bud could almost pity him—almost.

“Do you know how far it is back to that town we passed?” he asked Bud spiritlessly after a while. Bud looked at the speedometer, made a mental calculation and told him it was fifteen miles. Towns, it seemed, were rather far apart in this section of the country.

“Well, let's see the road map. How far is it to the next one?”

“Search me. They didn't have any road maps back there. Darned hick burg.”

Foster studied awhile. “Well, let's see if we can push her off the middle of the road—and then I guess we'll have to let you walk back and get help. Eh, Mert? There's nothing else we can do—”

“What yuh going to tell 'em?” Mert demanded suspiciously.

Bud permitted a surprised glance to slant back at Mert. “Why, whatever you fellows fake up for me to tell,” he said naively. “I know the truth ain't popular on this trip, so get together and dope out something. And hand me over my suit case, will yuh? I want some dry socks to put on when I get there.”

Foster very obligingly tilted the suit case over into the front seat. After that he and Mert, as by a common thought impelled, climbed out and went over to a bushy live oak to confer in privacy. Mert carried the leather bag with him.

By the time they had finished and were coming back, Bud had gone through his belongings and had taken out a few letters that might prove awkward if found there later, two pairs of socks and his razor and toothbrush. He was folding the socks to stow away in his pocket when they got in.

“You can say that we're from Los Angeles, and on our way home,” Foster told him curtly. It was evident to Bud that the two had not quite agreed upon some subject they had discussed. “That's all right. I'm Foster, and he's named Brown—if any one gets too curious.”

“Fine. Fine because it's so simple. I'll eat another sandwich, if you don't mind, before I go. I'll tell a heartless world that fifteen miles is some little stroll—for a guy that hates walkin'.”

“You're paid for it,” Mert growled at him rudely.

“Sure, I'm paid for it,” Bud assented placidly, taking a bite. They might have wondered at his calm, but they did not. He ate what he wanted, took a long drink of the coffee, and started off up the hill they had rolled down an hour or more past.

He walked briskly, and when he was well out of earshot Bud began to whistle. Now and then he stopped to chuckle, and sometimes he frowned at an uncomfortable thought. But on the whole he was very well pleased with his present circumstances.