“Then do it,” advised a tall youth at the wheel. “Turn it over good and hard.”
“Yes, go ahead,” put in a good-natured looking chap in one of the rear seats. “We don’t want to stay here all day, even if it is a nice place.”
“All—right—here—she—goes!” panted stout Bob Baker, as he again turned the crank.
There was only the noise of the flywheel spinning around; a sort of cough and wheeze, but no whirr and throb that told of an explosion of gas in the cylinders.
“Oh, if you can’t get her started let me try!” exclaimed Ned Slade, the lad in the tonneau. “I thought you’d had practice enough, Bob.”
“That’s right,” remarked Jerry Hopkins, the lad at the wheel. “Keep at it, Bob, it’ll take off some of that extra flesh.”
“Oh, you——!” began the fat lad, and then he stopped to gaze in some astonishment at his chum, Ned, who had started to leave the rear seat, with the evident intention of trying his hand at the crank. For on Ned’s face there was a curious look as he gazed over Jerry’s shoulder at the switch, just under the overhang on the dashboard of the car. Then a broad grin illuminated Ned’s features, to be succeeded by a hearty laugh.
“Huh!” ejaculated Bob. “I don’t see anything to go into spasms over. If you think it’s so funny come out here and try it yourself. I never saw such a cranky car. It went all right a while ago, and now——”
“It’s all because you don’t know how to crank it—that’s the reason it’s cranky,” began Jerry. “I’ll show you——”