"Then help him out, will yer son?" puffed the red-faced Buck Bradley. "It's my private opinion," he went on, in a voice intended to be confidential, but which was merely a subdued bellow, "that that chaffer of mine couldn't chaff a chafing dish."
Ralph took one of the oil headlights out of its socket, and, taking it to the back of the car, found the chauffeur scratching his head over the tire.
"What's the trouble?" asked Ralph.
"Why, you see, sir," stammered the chauffeur, "I don't just exactly know. I think it's a puncture, but——"
"Say, aren't you supposed to be a chauffeur?" inquired Ralph disgustedly.
"Waal, I run a taxicab onct," was the reply, in a low tone, however, "but that's all the chauffering I ever done. You see, I went broke in San Antone, and——"
"All right; all right," snapped Ralph impatiently. "Say, you people, you'd better get out of the car, while I tinker this up."
"Is it a bad bust-up?" puffed Buck Bradley, clambering out. "I only bought ther car a week ago, and I've spent more time under it than in it, ever since."
"It's not very bad—just a little blow-out," announced Ralph, who had been examining the wheel. "Got a jack and an emergency kit?"
"Sure!" snorted Buck Bradley. "Here, you excuse for a chaffer, git ther hospital outfit, and hurry up."