“But I’ve got to get back by eight o’clock, Gordon. You promised that!”
“Schools make me sick! A girl as old as you having to get into the house at dark—like a little freckled-faced brat! It’s the limit. You ought to shock ’em good!”
“Gordon! Please see if you can’t start the car. We’ve come a long way and an evening star is shining already.”
“I can’t help it if something’s gone wrong, can I? I’m no mechanic. I didn’t make the machine! I’d fix it if I could!”
“You mean to say you can’t fix it—that there’s no prospect of getting it fixed—so we can get back by eight o’clock?”
“Oh, get off your high horse, Madge! Have a heart! What do you think I’m trying to do—get you in Dutch?”
Madelaine looked at her watch. It was twenty-five minutes past seven. The most disturbing phase of the predicament was that she had no knowledge of the locality nor where to go for help. Gordon lighted another cigarette and stared at his car ruefully.
“There’s only one way out,” he finally declared, “find a house with a telephone and have a garage car come out and tow us.”
“That will take an awful long time, won’t it, Gordon?”
“Well, and what of it?”