e of his own hempen
griddle cakes! The Great American Frying Pan! I don't expect men
building a new town to have time to read Hugh Walpole and James Branch
Cabell, but I do expect them to afford a cook who can fry eggs!"

As she paid the check, Claire tried to think of some protest which would
have any effect on the obese wits of the restaurant man. In face of his
pink puffiness she gave it up. Her failure as a Citizeness Fixit sent
her out of the place in a fury, carried her on in a dusty whirl till the
engine spat, sounded tired and reflective, and said it guessed it
wouldn't go any farther that day.

Now that she had something to do, Claire became patient. "Run out of
gas. Isn't it lucky I got that can for an extra gallon?"

But there was plenty of gas. There was no discernible reason why the
car should not go. She started the engine. It ran for half a minute and
quit. All the plugs showed sparks. No wires were detached in the
distributor. There was plenty of water, and the oil was not clogged. And
that ended Claire's knowledge of the inside of a motor.

She stopped two motorists. The first was sure that there was dirt on the
point of the needle valve, in the carburetor. While Claire shuddered
lest he never get it back, he took out the needle valve, wiped it, put
it back--and the engine was again started, and again, with great
promptness, it stopped.

The second Good Samaritan knew that one of the wires in the distributor
must be detached and, though she assured him that she had inspected
them, he looked pityingly at her smart sports-suit, said, "Well, I'll
just take a look," and removed the distributor cover. He also scratched
his head, felt of the fuses under the cowl, scratched his cheek, poked a
finger at the carburetor, rubbed his ear, said, "Well, uh----" looked to
see if there was water and gas, sighed, "Can't just seem to find out
what's the trouble," shot at his own car, and escaped.

Claire had been highly grateful and laudatory to both of them--but she
remained here, ten miles from nowhere. It was a beautiful place. Down a
hill the wheat swam toward a village whose elevator was a glistening
tower. Mud-hens gabbled in a slew, alfalfa shone with unearthly green,
and bees went junketing toward a field of red clover. But she had the
motorist's fever to go on. The road behind and in front was very long,
very white--and very empty.

Her father, out of much thought and a solid ignorance about all of
motor