"What is the matter?" asked Bob. He had been afraid to ask.
"He says," interpreted the secretary, "he has no inner tube. Forgot to bring any."
"Then he'll have to run on the rim," said Bob, desperately; "we've got to get out of this."
But the secretary nodded toward the radiator which roared as though about to blow up.
"Where is his water?" Rogeen felt more than the heat surging through his head.
The chauffeur sauntered round the car twice as though looking for it.
"Says," explained the secretary, "he had a can but must have lost it."
They tried running on the rim, without water and with the hot wind blowing the same direction they were going. The machine lasted four miles, and then quit in the middle of a sand drift, with the most infernal finality in its death surge.
Bob got out and looked at the stalled car hopelessly. The boiling wind surged over the hot dust and smote him witheringly. The driven sand almost suffocated him. It was twenty-five miles at least to the river, twenty more to possible assistance. He looked at his watch—it was five minutes after one. Six hours before the sun would set, and until then walking would be suicide.
He climbed back into the machine, and sank limply into the shaded corner of the seat. Six hours of this—it would be torture; and there would be one long night of walking to reach water; another day of waiting for night—without food—and again a long, staggering walk before they reached a human habitation.