"Well," Mollie decided at last, sitting miserably on the running board,
"I guess we've either got to sit here all night or walk home and trust to
luck the car doesn't get stolen."

"Also get soaked through ourselves," Grace was adding disconsolately, when
a familiar sound caught their ears. It was the regular tramp, tramp of
marching men.

"Some of the boys from the camp!" cried Mollie, springing up joyfully.
"Maybe they'll help us."

As the small squad swung around the turn in the road they were delighted
to see that Sergeant Mullins was in charge. He brought the boys to a sharp
halt at sight of them, and came forward to meet them, saluting gravely.

"Are you in trouble?" he asked, with his quiet smile and a glance at the
stalled machine. "May I help?"

"Oh, would you?" cried Betty, her pretty forehead puckered. "We do want to
get back before the storm breaks."

Without a word, the young fellow removed his jacket and examined the
machine carefully. Then, with equal gravity, he wormed his way under the
car.

In what seemed to the girls no more than a minute, he reappeared and
smiled at them.

"I guess it's all right now," he assured them with another punctilious
salute. "If I might suggest that there's no time to be lost--" with a