“Would it hold up two passengers?” asked Bennie.
“All aboard!” called the doctor. “Stop insulting Pep’s chariot, and climb into your own. Lead the way, Pep.”
Pep spun his crank around, Methuselah grunted, spit, coughed, and then roared, the doctor and Mr. Stone stepped on their starters, and the procession moved down the main street of Bend, Methuselah leading, and swung south on the same road they had come up the day before. Once out in the open, Pep began to travel. Through the cloud of dust he kicked up, those behind could see the rear wheels of the old runabout go bobbing up and down, and from side to side. The doctor’s speedometer crept up to thirty, to thirty-five, to forty miles, as he followed.
“Gosh, he doesn’t care what happens to him!” Bennie said. “Think of hitting forty on this road in Methuselah!”
“Think of hitting forty on any road in Methuselah,” Uncle Billy laughed. “He’ll stop pretty soon, to cool her off—and tell us it was for something else.”
Before long he did stop. When the other cars drew up, Pep was standing beside Methuselah, at a place where a side road led off to the west, toward the white-capped mountains.
“Thought you might miss the turn if I didn’t wait,” he explained.
The doctor winked at the boys, and Bennie got out and started to put his hand on Methuselah’s radiator. But he speedily removed it.
“Will you have your eggs three minutes or four this morning, gents?” he asked. Then he listened with his ear near the hood. “Uncle Billy, I think you ought to come here,” he added. “I’m afraid poor old Methuselah has got blood pressure.”
Even Pep laughed at this. “Maybe I give him too much meat,” he said.