"Why, sure. It's all right. Everything's all right, as far as I
can find out." Bud looked Foster straight in the eye--and if
his own were a bit anxious, that was to be expected.

"Everything's all right," he added measuredly. "Only, she won't
go." He waited, watching Foster's face.

Foster chewed a corner of his lip worriedly. "Well, what do you
make of it?" His tone was helpless.

Bud threw out his two hands expressively, and shook his head.
He let down the hood, climbed in, slid into the driver's seat,
and went through the operation of starting. Only, he didn't
start. The self-starter hummed as it spun the flywheel, but
nothing whatever was elicited save a profane phrase from Foster
and a growl from Mert. Bud sat back flaccid, his whole body
owning defeat.

"Well, that means a tow in to the nearest shop," he stated,
after a minute of dismal silence. "She's dead as a doornail."

Mert sat back in his corner of the seat, muttering into his
collar. Foster looked at him, looked at Bud, looked at the car
and at the surrounding hills. He seemed terribly depressed and at
the same time determined to make the best of things. Bud could
almost pity him--almost.

"Do you know how far it is back to that town we passed?" he
asked Bud spiritlessly after a while. Bud looked at the
speedometer, made a mental calculation and told him it was