“Of course,” replied Tom, with a fine air of nonchalance. “It’s easy enough.”
So he turned the switch on to the battery, pulled down the throttle lever and tugged at the crank. There was a noise, but it wasn’t the sound of the engine running.
“Is she going?” asked Willard awedly.
“No,” panted Tom, “not yet. I guess she’s cold.” [He gave the handle another half-dozen turns without result.]
[“He gave the handle another half-dozen turns without result”]
“Cold!” said Willard. “Gee, that’s more than I am and more than you look!”
Tom scowled at the car. “Something must be wrong,” he muttered, fiddling with the spark and throttle and then swinging the switch on and off knowingly. “I’ll try her again.”
He did, while Willard backed further away, and for some unknown reason the engine sputtered once or twice and then settled down into a steady, rhythmic song. Tom, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, smiled triumphantly across at his chum. Willard gathered courage and drew near.
“Why doesn’t it go?” he demanded.