“Batteries all right. Ignition.”
Four miles from town, with a dead motor! But before we had time to exchange doleful glances, he asked briskly,
“Got a rope?”
We protested at his inconveniencing himself, for we had a fixed scruple that having taken to the road regardless of consequences, we should be willing to take our own medicine and abide by what arrived. But we might have saved our breath. The Samaritans who passed by on our side always answered comfortably as did this latest benefactor.
“What’m I here for?”
Thus, with at least an hour’s loss, Number 10, or 11, or 12 of the Nicest Men We Ever Met towed us to the nearest ranch, and there telephoned for help. How welcome were the rattletrap ex-racer, and blue-overalled mechanic with a smudge on his left cheek who came to a dashing stop opposite our machine,—the same mechanic we had despised yesterday for forgetting to fill our greasecups,—I was tempted to paraphrase Goldsmith, or somebody,
“Garageman, in thine hours of ease
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
But seen too oft, familiar with thy face
We first endure, then pity, then embrace!”