“Waaal naow, some sez ’ts seven mile n’ some sez eight,” said the proprietor of the shack. “Yer keep right ter this here road. Purty soon yer cum ter a hill n’ yer go up that n’ foller the main road, yer can’t go wrong.”
“They keep gas there?” Townsend asked.
“Waal, they keep it but more’n like they’re closed up. There’s a circus thar—”
“G—long, Liz,” said Townsend impatiently. By the time they reached the foot of the hill it was dark. They started up gayly, their thoughts now bent on supper and camping for the night. The car struggled up, pounding but resolute, a model of indomitable perseverance. But after a while it began to sputter and then it stopped and gave unmistakable evidence of an intention to retreat down the hill again.
“Won’t it make the hill?” Pee-wee asked.
“Get out and put a couple of stones under the wheels,” said Townsend. “The gas is too low, it won’t flow up hill.”
The flivver had balked, not in fear of the ascent, for it would have been glad to walk up where elevators fear to go, but for the good and sufficient reason that the gas tank was under the seat and the small supply of gas within it at a lower level than the carburetor.
“It’s a gravity feed,” said Townsend; “your father’s car has a vacuum pump.”
“Gravity, that means it’s serious, hey?” said Pee-wee.
“No, the situation isn’t grave,” laughed Townsend; “only I don’t know whether we can turn around here or not, the road is so narrow.”