"Which seat is it under?" asked the confederate in the dire conspiracy.
"How do I know?" was Phil's rejoinder.
A half hour of tinkering with the engine followed, during which an agitated Speed Bartlett paced up and down the highway, returning every few minutes to inquire the progress made.
"We can't even get the engine started now," was Milt's cheerful report. "It's a good thing we stopped when he did!"
"That's where you made your mistake," said Speed, irritably. "You never should have stopped!"
"No!" retorted Phil, caustically. "You should burn out a bearing on your car!"
"I haven't any car!" replied Speed, sharply.
"That's just the point!" returned Milt, smothering a chuckle. "But, don't worry, Speed, we'll explain to the Coach! Have a chocolate bar—there's one in my coat in the car."
"I can't eat anything," was Speed's glum rejoinder. "My stomach's on the blink."
A flashing headlight suddenly appeared from around a curve in the road.