"Awfully sorry," said Amy. "I got the wrong handle. Try it again."
The clock showed four-forty-four and Clint saw the car roll around the corner into the square. "Come on," he begged. "We'll have to beat it, Amy." Amy nodded, but the youth was cranking again and he didn't want to desert his post. This time their combined efforts were crowned with success. The car awoke to a steady, frantic chugging. The youth mopped his forehead again.
"Want a ride?" he asked. "I'm going by the school."
"Not our school," said Amy. "We're from Brimfield."
"Well, I'll put you down in Wharton before the trolley gets there. That's where I'm going. Jump in."
Amy looked eagerly at Clint. "Want to?" he asked.
"Got to," replied Clint gloomily. "There goes the car, you silly chump!"
"All right," said Amy. "We don't have to get there until five-twenty, anyway. Come on, Clint."
They climbed into the back of the car and threw themselves luxuriously against the cushions.
"Home, James," commanded Amy.