“How d’ye do, Miss Herron?” said Fraser, apparently much embarrassed. “Lucy——”
“Is that machine really broken?” The joyful hope in Miss Agatha’s voice was quite unconcealed. “Smashed?”
“There’s something wrong, certainly,” the boy confessed, ruefully. His regard sought Lucy’s. “But just what’s amiss I can’t see.”
The old lady shook her head warningly. Some outward manifestation she had to make in order to conceal the joy which, like a warm cordial, penetrated every fiber of her being as a certain plan shaped itself in her mind. This was the automobile which had frightened her horses and set her nerves twittering; and now it reposed by the roadside helpless. This was the reckless, handsome boy who had set her guests laughing on an occasion requiring a measure of decorum, since the bishop honored her house with his presence; who now, with every appearance of impotent anger, was tinkering with the vitals of a hot engine, dirty and perspiring. Miss Herron admired the idea which grew before her imagination as she would have admired a beautiful, unfolding flower.
“It ought to go now,” the boy announced, after some further bungling examination. What his testing and poking was supposed to accomplish did not appear. He spoke with an odd ruefulness, and seemed to try to deepen the impression his tone conveyed by another look at Lucy eloquent of regret.
“Try it,” said Miss Herron.
The boy threw over the balance wheel; there came forth a clank and some faint clicks from the engine’s interior; then cold silence settled upon it again.
“No go,” reported Archibald, and proceeded to explain what by rights should have come to pass. “But none of these engines are perfected,” he added.
“So there you must—remain? Two miles from any assistance?”
“Yes, Miss Herron.”