“Did you want to stop those men to see if they could help you, Neale?” asked Mrs. Heard. “It will be awful if we have to stand here all day. We’re still a long way from Parmenter Lake.”
Neale could not help uttering a grunt at that. Nervous people are very nagging—without meaning to be.
Just as he was getting down to crawl under the machine Sammy Pinkney, who had been keeping wonderfully quiet for him, suddenly asked:
“Say, Neale! You got any gas, do you s’pose?”
Neale straightened up, looked at the little chap who stood with his hands in his pockets and his legs very wide apart, and finally exclaimed:
“I don’t know whether to be sore on you, Sammy, or not!”
“Huh? What’s the matter?” asked Sammy, belligerently.
Neale O’Neil started for the tank. “Why didn’t you suggest that before?” he demanded. “There! I declare, folks,” he added, “the tank’s almost dry. I should have bought gasoline before we left the hotel this morning.”
“Goodness, gracious, me!” cried Agnes. “It can’t be so, Neale!”
“It’s empty,” the boy assured her.