Tom Burrill drew up in the shade at the side of the road, jumped from the car with a wrench in his hand and, lifting the hood, began to inspect the spark plugs.
He was a healthy, well-built, intelligent-looking boy of seventeen, with a lean, sunburned face. Clear gray eyes, a straight nose, a mouth that showed a sense of humor and a chin that indicated determination were his most noticeable features. He was tall for his years and had the look of one who spends much time out of doors.
The automobile deserves quite as full a description as its owner. It was small, low hung and light in weight—more a cycle car than a full-grown runabout—and was painted a bright red, all except the wheels, which were painted black. Its name was “Puff.” There was no doubt about the name, for it was conspicuously painted in black on the gasoline tank behind the seat.
Tom’s father had proposed calling the car “E Pluribus Unum,” since it was decidedly one out of many! Tom had built it himself; he had got the parts at secondhand—here, there and anywhere. The small, two-cylinder, twelve-horse-power engine that supplied the motive power Tom had picked up for a song at a repair shop in Kingston. The body he had built himself, and the engine hood he had had made at the local stamping works. You would never have suspected that under the two coats of brilliant red paint the hood was nothing more than a fair quality of zinc!
The car was air-cooled and chain-driven, and when Tom drove it over rough roads it rattled like half a dozen dish pans. But for all that it could do its thirty miles an hour, and perhaps better were it permitted to! Tom had spent most of his spare time that spring in building the car; but he had had a great deal of pleasure, to say nothing of his final triumph when he made his first trip through Kingston, to the confusion of the scoffers who had predicted failure!
But Puff had its troubles, just as larger and more expensive cars have theirs, and so far that summer much of its life had been spent in the stable, undergoing repairs. If the truth were told, however, Tom got almost as much pleasure out of Puff in the stable as he did out of Puff on the road, for he was never happier than when he was tinkering with machinery.
This morning he had overhauled the little car with more than ordinary care, for he was to make the run to Bristol and back, a matter of forty-eight miles all told. The trip was in the nature of a supreme test of Puff’s endurance. All had gone well until Kingston lay two miles behind. Then Puff had begun to skip and lose power, and Tom had at last been forced to investigate.
The investigation, however, was not very successful; both spark plugs were bright and appeared to be firing perfectly. With a puzzled shake of his head, Tom replaced them and began to survey the wiring. It was at this moment that a sound up the road toward home drew his attention. He had barely time to raise his head and look before a huge touring car raced past him in a cloud of dust.
Yet it did not travel so fast that Tom failed to identify the make. It was a Spalding of the latest model—a big, six-cylinder car painted battleship gray, with bright red wheels. In the big tonneau sat a single passenger, a man in a light gray overcoat and a cloth cap. The chauffeur was in brown livery. All this Tom saw before the car was lost to sight round a bend in the road. It did not, he was sure, belong in Kingston, for there was only one six-cylinder automobile in the town, and that was a Wright. Probably the car belonged in Bristol, for the Spalding factory was in that city. It was doubtless returning from a trip to Kingston, he concluded.
He started his engine again and climbed back to the seat. Puff started off well, and Tom was congratulating himself on having unwittingly repaired the trouble, when again the engine began to miss fire. It seemed very puzzling. His errand made it necessary for him to reach Bristol before the bank closed at twelve, and so he did not dare to spend too much time on the road. As long as Puff made its twenty miles an hour—and it was doing that and more, as the small speedometer showed—he decided that he would keep on. After he had delivered the envelope that was in his pocket at the bank and thus done his father’s errand, he would look for the trouble.
“If I can’t find it,” he said to himself with a smile, “maybe I’ll drop round to the Spalding factory and exchange Puff for one of those ‘six-sixties’! Only,” he added half aloud as he swung round the turn, “they’ll have to give me something to boot!”
The next instant he was staring ahead with interest. Beyond, drawn up at the side of the road, stood the big car. The chauffeur was leaning under the raised hood and the passenger was watching from the car. As Tom approached he slowed Puff down a little. He would have been less than human had he not experienced an instant of mild satisfaction. Puff had cost him something like eighty dollars, whereas the big Spalding, as Tom well knew, was priced at nearly four thousand dollars; and certainly, as far as the quality of “get there” was concerned, the big car was at that moment inferior to the little one.
As Tom approached, he noticed that the man in the gray overcoat looked cross and irritated, and that the chauffeur was worried. It seemed rather ridiculous for him to offer assistance, he reflected, but, nevertheless, he stopped. “I don’t suppose I can be of any help, sir?” he inquired.
The man in the car shook his head impatiently, with only a glance toward him; but the chauffeur, casting a quick and wondering look over the small car and wiping his hands upon a bunch of waste, replied sarcastically, “Not unless you’ve got a spare cylinder.”
“What!” cried the man in the car. “Cylinder gone?”
“Piston’s broken, sir. Thought maybe it was only the valve was stuck or something, but I guess it’s the piston, all right.”
“But jumping cats!” snapped the man in the gray coat. “You can’t mend a broken piston rod!”
“No sir.”
“And she won’t run?”
“No, sir, not to speak of. She’s pushing the charge back into the carburetor. We might limp along about ten miles an hour, Mr. Fletcher, but I shouldn’t like to say that we’d not spoil another cylinder.”
“But I’ve got to get back by eleven! Can we get another car round here?”
“There’s a garage at Kingston, sir. Maybe——”
“How far back is it?”
“A matter of three miles, I guess.”
“About two and a half,” Tom corrected.
The passenger looked at his watch and frowned impatiently.
“I suppose it would take half an hour to get it,” he said. “It’s 10.18 now and my train leaves at 11.04. There’s less than an hour, and I’ve got to get that train to Chicago. Look here!” He swung round toward Tom. “Will that thing you’ve got there run?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom a little coldly. He did not like to have Puff called a “thing”!
“Will, eh?” snapped the man. “Well, there’s fifty dollars in it if you’ll get me to Bristol in time for the 11.04 express. Can you do it?”
Tom shook his head. “No, sir. If it’s 10.18 now, there’s only forty-six minutes and the distance is twenty-two miles. This car can do thirty on good roads, but——”
“Tut! tut! tut! Any car that can do thirty can do thirty-five if you push it. I tell you I’ll give you fifty dollars if you get me there. Isn’t that enough?”
“Plenty, thanks,” replied Tom quietly. “But I’m not running very well to-day. Something wrong with my plugs, I guess; or maybe it’s the wiring. Anyway——”
But Mr. Fletcher was already climbing out of his car. “Dennis!” he said sharply. “Bring some spare spark plugs!”
He was across the road in a second. “Get your plugs out,” he ordered Tom, “and see if mine will fit. Get a move on, if you want to earn that fifty.”
Tom hesitated for an instant. Then he said, “I’ll do the best I can, sir.”
By the time the chauffeur had found the new plugs Tom had taken the old ones out. Fortunately, the new ones fitted and the chauffeur quickly screwed them in. As Tom connected the wires, Mr. Fletcher issued directions to the chauffeur.
“Get my bag, Dennis. Put it between my feet here. You stay with the car and I’ll send out and have you towed home. Put it in the shop and tell Morrison to give you something to use while it’s being fixed. Meet the 4.10 to-morrow afternoon. All right, son! Now let’s see what you can do.” He pulled his watch out again. “You’ve got forty-four minutes!”
Tom started the engine, sprang to the seat, threw in the clutch, changed to high speed and bounded gayly off. The seat was narrow and low, and Mr. Fletcher, who was of ordinary height and stockily built, filled his half of it to overflowing.
“Most uncomfortable seat I was ever in!” he exclaimed. “What make of a car is this, for goodness’ sake?”
“Burrill, two-twelve, Model A,” replied Tom gravely, clinging to the wheel as the car swung round the next bend in the road.
“Never heard of it,” said the other. “Won’t it go any faster than this?”
The hand on the speedometer was hovering back and forth round thirty. Tom drew the throttle down another notch and the hand went to thirty-three. The new spark plugs had evidently done the work, for there was never a skip now. Puff was running as smoothly as a Spalding Six!
“That’s better!” grunted the passenger, holding on tight to keep from being jounced out. “If the thing sticks together we may make it. How much do they get for these things?”
“It cost me about eighty dollars,” answered Tom, tooting his horn frantically as he saw a wagon ahead.
“Oh, second-hand, eh?”
“Most of it, sir. I made it myself.”
“Made it yourself!” There was both surprise and admiration in Mr. Fletcher’s tone. “Well, you’re a mechanic, my boy. I’ll apologize for any disparaging remarks I may have made. Sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
“That’s all right,” replied Tom, as he swung almost into the ditch to get round the wagon, the driver of which was fast asleep on the seat. “It isn’t much of a car, but it does pretty well. And I haven’t broken any pistons yet!”
“Hum!” said Mr. Fletcher. “Well, send her along, son. If she’ll keep this up we may make it. By Jove, we’ve got to make it! I wouldn’t miss that appointment in Chicago for a thousand dollars! Let her out another notch. You’ve got a straight road.”
But Tom shook his head. “I’d rather not. We can make it this way if nothing happens.”
Mr. Fletcher grunted. The little car was going at its best speed; to Tom, who was clutching the wheel with strained muscles and intently watching the road ahead, it seemed to leap past the fences as if it were alive.
“So you made this yourself?” Mr. Fletcher said presently. “Must have been something of a job. I’ve made a few myself, but——”
There was a sharp crack! Mr. Fletcher’s side of the car suddenly sank, and he grabbed wildly at Tom in an effort to keep his balance. As Tom set the emergency brake, the car swerved and came to a stop. Tom leaped out and viewed the damage.
“Spring’s busted,” he reported. “I always thought they were too light.”
“Spring, eh? Well, she’ll run, won’t she?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s going to be uncomfortable, because the body’s right down on the axle on your side.”
“H’m, I guess a little more discomfort won’t matter! Let’s get on, let’s get on!”
They went on, with the speedometer wavering round thirty-three miles an hour. Twice Tom had to slow down: once when the road dipped and turned sharply under a railway bridge, and again when they passed through the little village of West Adams. At intervals Mr. Fletcher, carefully releasing his hold on the car, took out his watch and reported the time.
“Ten thirty-eight,” he said, as they speeded up again beyond West Adams. “How much farther?”
“About twelve miles. We’ll do it if——”
“We’ve got to do it!”
A few minutes later Mr. Fletcher sniffed the air. “She’s heating up, isn’t she? Got water in your radiator?”
“No, sir; she’s air-cooled.”
“Smells like it!”
A long hill rose in front, and Tom pulled down his throttle another notch or two. Puff took the hill flying, and Mr. Fletcher grunted in unwilling admiration.
“Lots of power! What’s that?”
A dull pounding noise was coming from under the car.
“Flat tire,” said Tom. “We’ll have to run on the rim.”
“Ten forty-seven!” Mr. Fletcher announced. “Can we do it?”
“If she’ll hold together! It’s only about six miles, I think.”
“When you get this side of town, where the two roads branch at the powder factory, take the right. It’s a poor road, but it’s a mile shorter and goes straight to the station.”
Bumpity-bump! went the body against the axle! Thumpity-thump! went the wheel with the flat tire. Honk! honk! went the horn. The little car tore along. Five minutes later the smoke pall above Bristol was in sight. The road grew rougher and wagons began to dispute the way. At the powder factory Tom swung to the right on a road that was rutted by heavy teaming.
“Just fifty-seven!” shouted Mr. Fletcher above the noise.
Tom nodded. Ahead of them the city, with its tall chimneys belching smoke, was now in plain sight. Puff jumped and careened, but kept its pace. Three miles more and seven minutes left!
Suddenly an exclamation of dismay from his companion sent Tom’s gaze traveling far up the road. A quarter of a mile ahead a drawbridge spanned a river, and approaching it from downstream was a tugboat. Even as Tom looked little puffs of gray steam rose from the tug, and an instant later the whistle blasts from it reached him. She was signaling for the draw; the tender already had begun to swing the gates.
“That settles it!” groaned Mr. Fletcher.
Tom calculated the distance, pulled down the throttle, and Puff sprang madly forward.
“Reach past me and blow the horn!” Tom gasped.
Mr. Fletcher obeyed. Honk! honk! honk! shrieked the little car. The bridge tender had closed one of the two gates on the farther side and was hurrying toward the other. Honk! honk! honk! Then he heard, paused, looked from car to tugboat and, raising a hand, warned them back.
But Tom never hesitated. On rushed the car. The bridge was only a hundred feet away now, and Mr. Fletcher shouting unintelligible words, was working the horn madly. The bridge tender had half closed the second gate, when he changed his mind and hastily swung it open. There was a roar of planks under flying wheels, a swerve, the sound of a rear hub glancing from the end of the closed gate, and they were over. Behind them a wrathful tender shook his fist in the air!
THE BRIDGE TENDER HAD HALF CLOSED THE SECOND GATE
“Three minutes past!” gasped Mr. Fletcher.
But the station was in sight, beside the platform stood the long express. Still honking wildly, Puff dashed through the slow-moving traffic and pulled up with a jerk at the platform. Waving at the engineer, Mr. Fletcher tumbled out.
“Bag!” he cried.
Tom pushed it across with one foot.
“Thanks! I’ll have to send—that fifty. What’s—the name?”
“Tom Burrill, sir, but I don’t want any money.”
“All abo-o-oard!” called the conductor.
“Nonsense! Tom Burrill? Live in Kingston? You’ll hear from me—day or two! By!”
Mr. Fletcher rushed away, and was half pushed up the steps of a parlor car as the train moved off. Ten minutes later, at the bank, Tom put a question to the man at the window:
“Is there a Mr. Fletcher who lives here in Bristol, sir?”
“Fletcher? Certainly. Mr. Henry L. Fletcher lives here.”
“And—and what does he do, please?”
“Do? Why, makes automobiles, of course! haven’t you ever heard of the Spalding car?”
“Oh!” murmured Tom.
“Made right here in Bristol. A fine car, my boy.”
“Not bad,” replied Tom carelessly as he turned away. “Weak in the cylinders, though.”
Four days later at breakfast Tom received a letter in an envelope that bore the words, “Spalding Automobile Company, Bristol.”
The inclosure was brief. He read:
DEAR SIR: We are instructed by the President, Mr. Henry L. Fletcher, to deliver to you or your order one of our Model 14 Runabouts, fully equipped. The car is here at your disposal. Kindly call or send for it at your early convenience. Awaiting your instructions, we remain,
RESPECTFULLY YOURS,
SPALDING AUTOMOBILE COMPANY,
PER W. W. MORRISON, MANAGER.
“And what,” inquired Tom’s father a little later, “will you call this new automobile of yours? E Pluribus Fletcher?”
Tom did not hesitate. “I guess,” said he loyally, “I’ll call it Puff the Second.”