For a little way he jounced along the trail; then the motor began to labor; and although Casey pulled the gas lever down as far as it would go, the car slowed and stopped dead in the road.  After an hour of fruitless monkey-wrenching and swearing and sweating, Casey began to suspect something.  He examined both cans, “hefted” them, smelt and even tasted the one half-empty, and decided that Ford auty-mo-biles do not require two quarts of syrup at one dose.  He thought that a little syrup ought not to make much difference, but half a gallon was probably too much.

He put in more oil on top of the syrup, but he could not even move the crank, much less “turn ’er over.”  So long as a man can wind the crank of a Ford he seems able to keep alive his hopes.  Casey could not crank, wherefore he knew himself beaten even while he heaved and lifted and swore, and strained every muscle in his back lifting again.  He got so desperately wrathful that he lifted the car perceptibly off its right front wheel with every heave, but he felt as if he were trying to lift a boulder.

It was past supper time at Lucky Lode when Casey arrived, staggering a little with exhaustion, both mental and physical.  His eyes were bloodshot with the hot wind, his face was purple from the same wind, his lips were dry and rough.  I cannot blame the men at Lucky Lode for a sudden thirst when they saw him coming, and a hope that he still had a little left.  And when he told them that he had filled his engine with syrup instead of oil, what would any one think?

Their unjust suspicions would not have worried Casey in the least, had Lucky Lode not possessed a lady cook who was a lady.  She was a widow with two children, and she had the children with her and held herself aloof from the men in a manner befitting a lady.  Casey was hungry and thirsty and tired, and, as much as was possible to his nature, disgusted, with life in general.  The widow gave him a smile of sympathy which went straight to his heart, and hot biscuits and coffee and beans cooked the way he liked them best.  These went straight to ease the gnawing emptiness of his stomach, and being a man who took his emotions at their face value, he jumped to the conclusion that it was the lady whose presence gave him the glow.

Casey stayed that night and the next day and the next at Lucky Lode.  The foreman helped him tow the syruppy car up the hill to the machine shop where he could get at it, and Casey worked until night trying to remove the dingbats from the hootin’annies,—­otherwise, the pistons from the cylinders.  The foreman showed him what to do, and Casey did it, using a “double-jack” and a lot of energy.

Before he left the Lucky Lode, Casey knew exactly what syrup will do to a Ford if applied internally, and the widow had promised to marry him if he would stop drinking and smoking and swearing.  Since Casey had not been drunk in ten years on account of having seen a big yellow snake with a green head on the occasion of his last carouse, he took the drinking pledge quite cheerfully for her sake.  He promised to stop smoking, glad that the widow neglected to mention chewing tobacco, which was his everyday comfort.  As for the swearing, he told her he would do his best under the circumstances, and that he would taste the oil hereafter, and try and think up some new names for the Ford.