“Keep on to Gitalong, that’s the thing to do. If you don’t get there within half an hour of our arrival we’ll start out after you with water.”
“I suppose that’s all we can do,” groaned poor Billy.
“And the quicker we do it, the better,” briskly announced Frank. “Come on, Harry; ho for Gitalong, and to the dickens with Cow Wells, where there are no cows and no wells.”
“That’s why they gave it the name, I guess,” commented Lathrop, with a sorrowful grin.
It grew hotter and hotter as the afternoon wore on. Billy finally, although he stuck to the wheel pluckily as long as he was able, was compelled to give it up to Lathrop. After that he lay on the floor of the tonneau, suffering terrible torments from his raging thirst.
Old Bart sat grimly by Lathrop’s side, encouraging him as well as he knew how, and the boy bravely smiled at the old miner’s jokes and stories, although each smile made his parched lips crack.
“Why, what’s the matter?” remarked Lathrop suddenly, as the auto seemed to slow down and come to a stop of itself.
“I dunno; you’re an auto driver, you ought to know,” said Bart.
“The engine’s overheated,” pronounced old man Joyce. “Look at the steam coming from the cap of the radiator.”
He pointed to a slender wisp of white vapor. It indicated to Lathrop at once that Mr. Joyce was right. The accident they had dreaded had happened. It might be hours before they could proceed.