They waited for the final verdict—Mrs. Heard in a serious mind if the girls were not. Finally Neale backed out from beneath the machine. He held a casting in his hand, and it was so badly cracked that, when he pressed the halves apart, it broke in two pieces.
“There’s the blamed thing!” he pronounced, with scowling emphasis.
“Sh!” exclaimed Ruth. “Don’t use such language. Can’t it be fixed?”
“Oh, yes. They grow these things on bushes right out yonder in the fields. All I’ve got to do is to go and pick one that fits this breed of car. Oh, yes!” retorted Neale O’Neil.
“It is tragic!” gasped Mrs. Heard.
“Then we surely will have to stay here to-night,” said Agnes, and she did not sound as though the prospect worried her much.
“And to-morrow night—and the next night—and for several more, if you ask me,” growled Neale. “That is, unless I can get a wagon and drive you all to the nearest railroad station, and send you back to Milton.”
“Nev-air!” cried Agnes. “Let you stay here and have all the fun? Stingy!”
“My goodness, child,” murmured the chaperone. “What do you call fun?”
“At least, it would be a novel experience,” Ruth admitted.