Morris' estimate of the repair job's duration proved slightly inaccurate. He messed around with his tool bag and explored the carburetter again and again until two hours had elapsed without result. During this period only a few motor cars had passed, for the road was not a popular automobile thoroughfare. At length a large red car bore down on them, and as it came within a hundred yards it slowed down and came to a stop beside the Appalachian runabout. "Well, well," cried a familiar voice, "if this ain't the whole firm of Potash & Perlmutter."
Abe looked up.
"Hallo, Kleebaum," he exclaimed, "I thought you
was home in Minneapolis. What are you doing in New York?"
"This ain't New York by about forty miles," Kleebaum replied. He was seated at the side of a square-jawed professional chauffeur who eyed with ill-concealed mirth Morris' very unprofessional handling of automobile tools.
"Lemme look at it," the chauffeur said, as he climbed from his seat. He gave a hasty glance at the dry battery ignition and laughed uproariously.
"You'se guys will stay here till Christmas if you expect to get that car into running condition," he said. "The only thing for you'se to do is to let me give you a tow into Jamaica. They'll fix you up at the garage there."
"I'm much obliged to you," Morris replied.
"Don't mention it," the chauffeur went on. "I won't charge you unreasonable. Ten dollars is my figure."
"What!" Abe and Morris cried with one voice.