Mr. Treat, full of fear at the unusual noise, put on the emergency brake and brought the car to a standstill with a sudden jolt.
“Mercy me!” shouted Mrs. Treat, from the tonneau. “Let me out! I told you something would happen and we’d all be killed. Let me out!” she repeated, fumbling frantically at the door.
“What’s the matter?” inquired the boys, as they began to tinker with spark plug, brake and lever.
“Let those be!” commanded Mr. Treat, not in the best of humor, and trying in vain to conceal his uneasiness. “I’ll soon have it fixed,” and he continued his search for the cause of the trouble.
“It isn’t the tires as I can see, and nothing’s wrong with the sparker, either,” he said nervously. “And there comes the George Petersons, and he’ll have a spell if he sees me in difficulty. He is always glad to laugh at one in trouble. Besides, I know he’s wanted an auto for a long time, and a chance to laugh at—Mother, come on! Climb in. It’s all right. I must have fed the engine too much gasolene. Climb in and we’ll be hustling along.”
All went well until they topped the hill and struck a new cinder road when b-b-bu-ur-r-r-r! came the same dismal, warning sound.
“Land sakes! Whatever can be the trouble now? I am getting that fidgety that I sha’n’t be able to enjoy anything at the Fair when we do get there!” fretted Mrs. Treat.
“I’m pretty certain it is the gear,” said her husband, “or else the carbureter.”
“Perhaps it is the spark plug,” offered knowing Tom.
“Mightn’t it be the batteries,” suggested Dick with a wise expression in his great blue eyes, and a frown on his face.