Bud did not say anything; your efficient chauffeur reserves his
eloquence for something more complex than a dead engine. He took
down the curtain on that side, leaned out into the rain and
inspected the road behind him, shifted into reverse, and backed
to the bottom.

"What's wrong?" Foster leaned forward to ask senselessly.

"When I hit level ground, I'm going to find out," Bud retorted,
still watching the road and steering with one hand. "Does the old
girl ever cut up with you on hills?"

"Why--no. She never has," Foster answered dubiously.

"Reason I asked, she didn't just choke down from the pull. She
went and died on me."

"That's funny," Foster observed weakly.

On the level Bud went into neutral and pressed the self-starter
with a pessimistic deliberation. He got three chugs and a
backfire into the carburetor, and after that silence. He tried it
again, coaxing her with the spark and throttle. The engine gave a
snort, hesitated and then, quite suddenly, began to throb with
docile regularity that seemed to belie any previous intention of
"cutting up."

Bud fed her the gas and took a run at the hill. She went up
like a thoroughbred and died at the top, just when the road had