The cab dived into another woods and ran clattering down 102 a roving hill road. Up the opposite steep it went with a weary gait. It crawled to the top with turtle-like labor. Davidge knew the symptoms, and he frowned in the shadow, yet smiled a little.
The car went banging down, held by a squealing brake. The light grew faint, and in the glimmer there was a close shave at the edge of a hazardous bridge over a deep, deep ravine. The cab rolled forward on the rough planks under its impetus, but it picked up no speed. Half-way across, it stopped.
“Whatever is the matter?” Marie Louise exclaimed.
Davidge leaned out and called to the driver, “What’s the matter now?” though he knew full well.
“Gas is gone, I reckon,” the fellow snarled, as he got down. After a moment’s examination he confirmed his diagnosis. “Yep, gas is all gone. I been on the go too long on this one call.”
“In Heaven’s name, where can you get some more gasolene?” said Marie Louise.
“Nearest garodge is at Rosslyn, I reckon, lady.”
“How far is that?”
“I’d hate to say, lady. Three, fo’ mahls, most lahkly, and prob’ly closed naow.”
“Go wake it up at once.”