"Not for the car," said the Watermelon. "None of us would be able to fix it."
"My dear sir," said the general warmly, "I have owned this car for a year—"
"I know," murmured the Watermelon. "I think it marvelous."
"I am perfectly capable—"
"Will you bet with me," interrupted the Watermelon, "that it's the gasolene? Alphonse may have filled the other car at the expense of this one."
It was the gasolene, or rather the lack of gasolene, that had stopped the car.
"That's where a horse beats a car," lamented Henrietta. "You don't have to keep bothering with their works."
She sat down on the car step and clasped her hands in her lap. "We could spend the night here, but in the morning we wouldn't be any nearer gasolene than we are now."
"I'm not fretting about gasolene," said Bartlett. "I want something to eat. Let's all go to that house—"
"We can't leave the car," objected the general.