Tom started the engine, sprang to the seat, threw in the clutch, changed to high speed and bounded gayly off. The seat was narrow and low, and Mr. Fletcher, who was of ordinary height and stockily built, filled his half of it to overflowing.
“Most uncomfortable seat I was ever in!” he exclaimed. “What make of a car is this, for goodness’ sake?”
“Burrill, two-twelve, Model A,” replied Tom gravely, clinging to the wheel as the car swung round the next bend in the road.
“Never heard of it,” said the other. “Won’t it go any faster than this?”
The hand on the speedometer was hovering back and forth round thirty. Tom drew the throttle down another notch and the hand went to thirty-three. The new spark plugs had evidently done the work, for there was never a skip now. Puff was running as smoothly as a Spalding Six!
“That’s better!” grunted the passenger, holding on tight to keep from being jounced out. “If the thing sticks together we may make it. How much do they get for these things?”
“It cost me about eighty dollars,” answered Tom, tooting his horn frantically as he saw a wagon ahead.
“Oh, second-hand, eh?”
“Most of it, sir. I made it myself.”