Bang!
Just then the runabout blew up a forward tire. The machine tried to turn a somersault, and its passenger went over on the hood and tried to knock off one of the gas lamps with his head. When Matt brought the touring car to the side of the runabout, and halted, the man was on his feet, shaking his fist at the silent white tormentor.
“If I had a stick of dynamite,” he declared wrathfully, “I’d blow this infernal machine to kingdom come! I’ve been fiddling around the Jericho Road for two mortal hours, and I could have made better time if I’d left the car and gone on afoot. But I’ll hang to it, and make it take me where I’m going. By George, I’ll not be beaten by a senseless contraption of tires, mud guards, and machinery.”
Matt had jumped out of the touring car and was sniffing at the damaged tire.
“What makes that smell of gasoline?” he asked.
“I put in a tube this morning, and washed out the chalk with gasoline,” said the man.
“Never use gasoline for cleaning the tubes,” counseled Matt. “Get all the chalk you can from the outer tube, and then soak it in wood naphtha or ordinary alcohol. No wonder your tire blew up. You left gasoline in the shoe, and when it got hot, it mixed with a little air in the tube and something had to happen. Have you got another shoe?”
“Yes.”
“And a jack?”
“Of course. When a man goes out with a car like this he ought to carry a small garage around with him.”