In that instant she also forgot that the stress of the previous four years had accustomed men to seeing women do any kind of work in any kind of costume; but soon Linda realized that Donald Whiting was not paying any particular attention either to her or to her occupation. He was leaning forward, gazing at the car with positively an enraptured expression on his eager young face.
“Shades of Jehu!” he cried. “It’s a Bear-cat!”
Linda felt around her head for the grease cup.
“Why, sure it’s a Bear-cat,” she said with the calmness of complete recovery. “And it’s just about ready to start for its very own cave in the canyon.”
Donald Whiting pitched his hat upon the seat, shook off his coat, and sent it flying after the hat. Then he began unbuttoning and turning back his sleeves.
“Here, let me do that,” he said authoritatively. “Gee! I have never yet ridden in a Bear-cat. Take me with you, will you, Linda?”
“Sure,” said Linda, pressing the grease into the cup with a little paddle and holding it up to see if she had it well filled. “Sure, but there’s no use in you getting into this mess, because I have only got two more. You look over the engine. Did you ever grind valves, and do you think these need it?”
“Why, they don’t need it,” said Donald, “if they were all right when it was jacked up.”
“Well, they were,” said Linda. “It was running like a watch when it went to sleep. But do we dare take it out on these tires?”
“How long has it been?” asked Donald, busy at the engine.