"Sixteen miles!" I did the only thing I could think of. I kicked my buggy in the bumper, then collapsed onto the running board.
"Hell's beacons, man, I can't walk that far! Not without my Boy Scout axe. What am I going to do? I've got to get to Westville before dark, my car's on the squeegee, and so far as I'm concerned that thing under the hood is a deep, dark mystery."
He said, "Let's see," interestedly, and gangled over the fence. He lifted the hood and stared into the maw of my crate. His eyes darted from one piece of machinery to another; after a while he began to mumble to himself, and once he nodded.
Then he muttered, "'Pears like it oughta be this 'un here—" and reached in and touched something. It clinked. He tightened it.
"Try 'er now," he said. "Wiggle somethin'. Make 'er go."
"Sure," I said caustically. "All I need is a nice long hill."
But I climbed in and kicked the starter. Then I yelled. Because the old jalopy gave one disgusted snort, then began to purr like a fireside tabby!
"She roars," he said, "purty. Don't she?"
"She do, indeed," I told him exuberantly. "Say, friend, why didn't you tell me you were a mechanic? You've saved me three aspirins and a broken arch."