dipped into the descent. Bud sent her down hill on compression,
but at the bottom she refused to find her voice again when he
turned on the switch and pressed the accelerator. She simply
rolled down to the first incline and stopped there like a balky
mule.

"Thunder!" said Bud, and looked around at Foster. "Do you
reckon the old boat is jinxed, just because I said I could drive
her as far as she'd go? The old rip ain't shot a cylinder since
we hit the top of the hill."

"Maybe the mixture--"

"Yeah," Bud interrupted with a secret grin, "I've been wondering
about that, and the needle valve, and the feed pipe, and a few
other little things. Well, we'll have a look."

Forthwith he climbed out into the drizzle and began a
conscientious search for the trouble. He inspected the needle
valve with much care, and had Foster on the front seat trying to
start her afterwards. He looked for short circuit. He changed the
carburetor adjustment, and Foster got a weary chug-chug that
ceased almost as soon as it had begun. He looked all the spark
plugs over, he went after the vacuum feed and found that working
perfectly. He stood back, finally, with his hands on his hips,
and stared at the engine and shook his head slowly twice.

Foster, in the driver's seat, swore and tried again to start
it. "Maybe if you cranked it," he suggested tentatively.