“Well! you needn’t be so pie-crusty,” she said. “Is the car falling to pieces?”
“Maybe.”
“Why don’t you stop and find out?”
“On this hill? Not much!” declared the boy, his brow still wrinkled with anxiety.
“Well! It’s—go-ing—to—stop!” jerked out the prophetic Agnes, as the wheels of the rumbling car seemed to turn more and more slowly.
“What is the matter?” demanded Ruth, from the tonneau. “Is the car stopping?”
Neale manipulated the levers, and the engine roared spitefully; but the speed did not increase, and that sepulchral thumping under the car continued.
“I hope you haven’t run out of gasoline again, Neale?” suggested Mrs. Heard.
Neale grunted. Agnes giggled. “My! you could bite nails, couldn’t you?” she whispered.
It was most exasperating—no mistake about it! The machine had acted so well all along, that perhaps he had grown careless. Yet Neale could not imagine what it was that had happened now. And away out here in the wilderness! He was sure that rumbling and thumping spelled trouble.