He's some classy little driver, Barry. Inside of a hundred yards he has her doin' better than twenty-six on an up grade over a dirt road sprinkled free with rocks and waterbreaks. Slam bang, bumpety-bump, ding-dong we go, with more jingles and squeaks and rattles than a junk cart rollin' off a roof.
"Don't mind a few little noises," says Miss McLeod. "Barry doesn't. A loose fender or a worn roller bearing means nothing to him. Why, he started with a cracked spark-plug that was spitting like a tom-cat, the carburetor popping from too lean a mixture, and a half filled radiator boiling away merrily. It was stopping to get those things fixed up, and having some air pumped into the spare tire, that made us so late."
"You see!" says Barry. "She admits it. Wonderful girl though, Ann. She can tell at a glance just what's the matter with anything or anyone. Take me, for instance; she——"
"Sharp curve ahead, Barry," breaks in Ann.
"Right-o!" says he, takin' it on two wheels and then stepping on the gas button to rush a hill.
"Lucky we're wedged in tight," says I, "or some of us might be spilled out."
"Yes," says Miss McLeod, "and Barry never would miss us."
"Cruel words!" says Barry. "How often have I said, Ann, that I miss you every hour?"
"He's off again," says Ann. "But if you must be sentimental, Barry, I shall insist on doing the driving myself."
"Squelched!" says Barry. "I'll be good."