“See if you can crank the machine.”
Clancy lowered the sides of the hood, fastened them in place, and then walked back and adjusted the spark. One spin of the crank set the engine to humming.
“Well, by George!” exclaimed the judge; “and neither Rockwell nor Hibbard could tell what was wrong! What do you know about that?” he asked, turning to the garage proprietor.
Rockwell merely grunted and began cranking his own machine preparatory to a return to town. Hibbard’s face was like a thundercloud. The animosity he had previously shown toward Fortune had seemingly shifted to Clancy. Like Rockwell, however, Hibbard had nothing to say.
“I suppose you can drive a car, Clancy?” the judge asked.
“Certainly,” was the reply.
“Then I’d like to have you drive me back to town.”
“I don’t want to take the place of your chauffeur, judge,” said Clancy, “and, besides, I’ve a little business with Mr. Rockwell and would like to ride with him. We can transact the business very nicely on the way to town.”
Rockwell, who was behind the wheel of the other machine, shot another quick glance at Clancy.
“I reckon I’ll take the rumble seat o’ the other car, and ride with you, pard,” spoke up Fortune.