“Say, one of you fellows pull that throttle down when I get her going, will you?” asked the automobilist.  Amy nodded and put his hand on the quadrant.

“Now then!” The engine started after several crankings and Amy pulled a lever.  Unfortunately, however, he pulled the wrong one and the engine, as Amy said, immediately choked to death.  The youth observed him more in sorrow than in anger and drew a sleeve over his perspiring forehead.

“Awfully sorry,” said Amy.  “I got the wrong handle.  Try it again.”

The clock showed four-forty-four and Clint saw the car roll around the corner into the square.  “Come on,” he begged.  “We’ll have to beat it, Amy.”  Amy nodded, but the youth was cranking again and he didn’t want to desert his post.  This time their combined efforts were crowned with success.  The car awoke to a steady, frantic chugging.  The youth mopped his forehead again.

“Want a ride?” he asked.  “I’m going by the school.”

“Not our school,” said Amy.  “We’re from Brimfield.”

“Well, I’ll put you down in Wharton before the trolley gets there.  That’s where I’m going.  Jump in.”

Amy looked eagerly at Clint.  “Want to?” he asked.

“Got to,” replied Clint gloomily.  “There goes the car, you silly chump!”

“All right,” said Amy.  “We don’t have to get there until five-twenty, anyway.  Come on, Clint.”

They climbed into the back of the car and threw themselves luxuriously against the cushions.

“Home, James,” commanded Amy.

The driver turned and grinned.  He was a not-over-clean youth, and his hair was badly in need of a barber’s attentions, but he was evidently good-natured.  The car, which was an old one and had undoubtedly seen much better days, swung around and headed back toward Thacher School and the football field.  The youth talked to them over his shoulder.

“She’s hard to start,” he said, “when she’s been standing, but she can go all right.  You wait till we’re out of town and I’ll show you.  I got to go over to Wharton to get Mr. Cumnock.”

“Who’s he?” asked Amy disinterestedly.

“He runs the Commercial House.  He comes out from New York on the express and I go over and get him.”

“Oh, is this his car?”

“No, it belongs to Sterry, the liveryman.  I drive for him.  It’s been a good car in its day, but it’s pretty old now.  Runs pretty well, though, when it’s in shape.”

“I hope,” said Clint, “it’s in shape today.”

“Sure.  I was two hours fixing it this morning.  Now I’ll show you if she can go.”