This last mess proved beyond all doubt that our luck had deserted us. Whether we had seen them or not, thirteen black cats had skulked across our path that morning. Nor did it add any to the joy of the occasion to have the leader and I growling at each other. Anyway, to our credit, we aren’t the growling kind. So pretty soon we were all right again. And seeing the funny side of our crazy adventure we almost laughed our heads off.
“Whistle,” says I.
“What for?” says Poppy.
“Maybe it’ll come to you,” says I, pointing to the car, suffering in the thickest of the gas attack.
“How would it be,” grinned Poppy, “if we climbed the fence and moved the stink factory?”
“I’ve got it!” I yipped. “Let’s turn off the electric fan,” meaning the wind.
“And we used to think that Limburger cheese was delicious!”
“And sauerkraut,” I gagged in company.
At noon the thick smell sort of quieted down. Either the wind had switched or the supply of ripe horses was running low. We could stand it now to go back to the car, where Poppy got to work. And did any music, even a calliope, ever sound as sweet to me as the first healthy snort that came out of that old engine when the tinkerer finally got the jigger cornered that was causing all the grief.
But within ten minutes we were hung up again. Nor could we get anything out of the old engine now except the weakest kind of a wheeze. We cranked and cranked. Boy, it was hot work. Our tempers were hot, too. Yes, and our stomachs were empty. Don’t forget about that.