"Hold on a minute," he said. "What's been making you miss so horribly on the off cylinder?"
"Oh, the whole engine has been acting like the dickens," she returned distressfully. "It hasn't been developing half its power. It's in one of its mean humors to-day, and behaving like a pig."
"Couldn't you take off that front thing and let's see what's the trouble?" said the countryman, jumping back into his drawl.
And then, wrench in hand, he made a prolonged examination of the machinery. Then he turned over the engine and listened; then he turned over the engine again and listened some more. Then he crawled in under the wagon, reappearing with a lick of grease over one eye.
"It gets me," he said. "I ran a little oil out of the crank-case on general principles, and chased up the magnets—but everything's tip-top as far as I can see!"
"Suppose you crank up and let's try again," said the girl.
But the car went worse than ever. Instead of missing occasionally the engine began to run now in gasps. Just when Grace waited for it to die altogether it would give another cough and take another spurt ahead, progressing the car in a series of agonizing little rushes, every one promising to be the last. To add to Grace's discomfiture there was a fairly steep hill looming in front of them, and she foresaw their being stalled at the bottom. They made another stop. A pair of new spark-plugs was put in, but, instead of improving, the gasping got gaspier than ever. Still another stop, to replace the high tension wires.
But no improvement was effected. A weird, whizzling sound added itself to the other noises. Every gasp brought them nearer the hill, where, at the foot, the engine gave one awful hiccough and died dead.
"We might manage to crawl home the way we came," said Grace, at her wits' end.
"No, there's only one thing to do," said the farmer decisively, "and that's to start all over again and ferret out the trouble."