Walz did not offer to help, though he must have known that his strength was vitally needed in this desperate race against time.
“We’ll never get ’er out,” Willie muttered in despair.
Once more the Scouts heaved, and again the car began to roll. This time, as the uphill grade became too much of a barrier, Mr. Livingston helped move the car on the battery. Inch by inch it crept up the sloping bank to the higher road above.
War made a last powerful shove, lost his balance, and sprawled in the torrent. Jack grabbed him, and they all splashed out of the stream. Wet and bedraggled, they climbed back into the car to consider their plight.
“I suspect the spark plug is damp,” Mr. Livingston said, getting out a handkerchief with which to wipe it. “The engine stalled even before we hit the deep water.”
Despite protests from the Scouts, he took his turn in the rain. Walz, however, made no offer to help. Scowling, he sat huddled in the steamy car.
After twenty minutes of fussing with the spark plug, the Scout leader managed to get the engine started again. By that time, the rain had slackened considerably.
“Any more creek beds ahead?” Mr. Livingston asked Walz as the car crept forward once more.
“No,” Walz snapped. “I suppose you’re blaming me for what happened?”
“I didn’t hear anyone making any complaints,” the Scout leader replied. “An accident is an accident.”