The man who addressed him was white-haired, ruddy, and muscular, and he wore brown denim overalls stained with oil and grease; but although he was middle-aged there was a boyish friendliness in his face and in the frank blue eyes that peered out from under his shaggy brows.
"What's the trouble with your machine?" he repeated.
"I don't know," returned Stephen. "If I did, you bet I wouldn't be sitting here."
The workman laughed.
"Suppose you let me have a look at it," said he, climbing off the seat on which he was perched.
"I wish you would."
"It is a pretty fine car, isn't it?" observed the man, as he approached it. "Is it yours?"
"My father's."
"He lets you use it, eh?"
Stephen did not answer.