"No, only a bad sprain"—the man peered at Carter through the dusk and added "sir."
"Your car seems to be standing up all right on her four wheels. How did you get pitched out?"
"Oh, it wasn't that sort of an accident. She was misfiring badly, and then she stopped. When I tried to start her again, she back-fired on me and I thought my arm had gone. It's the jet in the carburetter that's choked, I believe, but I can't take the thing down with one hand."
"I could," Carter thought, and remembered certain episodes with his own first motor boat in Africa. But he did not mention this aloud. "Owner gone for help?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. But there's none round here. At least there's no such thing as a mechanic within twenty miles. A hay-motor and a tow to the nearest barn is the best one can expect."
"Where's your tool kit?"
"But do you understand motors, sir?" the man asked doubtfully.
"I had to. Just unship a light, and hold it with your sound hand so that I can see what I'm about. That's the ticket. You're sure it's the carburetter? Tried your spark and all four plugs?"
"Yes, sir, both the magneto and high tension. That's all right. She's getting no gas; that's the trouble. It's the gasolene feed that's choked somewhere. I saw the fellow that filled us up this morning pour in from a red-rusty tin before I could stop him, and it'll be a flake of oxide from that jammed in the carburetter nozzle. If you could take it down for us, sir, I'm sure it would be a very great favor."
"Wait a bit. Before we begin to pull the car to pieces, suppose we just make sure of one or two other things. Got a stick or anything to sound your gasolene tank with?"