“Made it yourself!” There was both surprise and admiration in Mr. Fletcher’s tone. “Well, you’re a mechanic, my boy. I’ll apologize for any disparaging remarks I may have made. Sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
“That’s all right,” replied Tom, as he swung almost into the ditch to get round the wagon, the driver of which was fast asleep on the seat. “It isn’t much of a car, but it does pretty well. And I haven’t broken any pistons yet!”
“Hum!” said Mr. Fletcher. “Well, send her along, son. If she’ll keep this up we may make it. By Jove, we’ve got to make it! I wouldn’t miss that appointment in Chicago for a thousand dollars! Let her out another notch. You’ve got a straight road.”
But Tom shook his head. “I’d rather not. We can make it this way if nothing happens.”
Mr. Fletcher grunted. The little car was going at its best speed; to Tom, who was clutching the wheel with strained muscles and intently watching the road ahead, it seemed to leap past the fences as if it were alive.
“So you made this yourself?” Mr. Fletcher said presently. “Must have been something of a job. I’ve made a few myself, but——”
There was a sharp crack! Mr. Fletcher’s side of the car suddenly sank, and he grabbed wildly at Tom in an effort to keep his balance. As Tom set the emergency brake, the car swerved and came to a stop. Tom leaped out and viewed the damage.
“Spring’s busted,” he reported. “I always thought they were too light.”
“Spring, eh? Well, she’ll run, won’t she?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s going to be uncomfortable, because the body’s right down on the axle on your side.”