Steve and the Steam Engine. Sara Ware Bassett
whirling toward him. In fact the dusty truck and its yet more dusty driver were beside him before he heeded either one. Then the newcomer came to a stop and he heard a pleasant voice:
"What's the matter, sonny?"
Stephen glanced up, trying bravely to return his questioner's smile.
The man who addressed him was white-haired, ruddy, and muscular, and he wore brown denim overalls stained with oil and grease; but although he was middle-aged there was a boyish friendliness in his face and in the frank blue eyes that peered out from under his shaggy brows.
"What's the trouble with your machine?" he repeated.
"I don't know," returned Stephen. "If I did, you bet I wouldn't be sitting here."
The workman laughed.
"Suppose you let me have a look at it," said he, climbing off the seat on which he was perched.
"I wish you would."
"It is a pretty fine car, isn't it?" observed the man, as he approached it. "Is it yours?"
"My father's."
"He lets you use it, eh?"
Stephen did not answer.
"Some fathers ain't that generous," went on the man as he began to examine the silent monster. "If I had an outfit like this, I ain't so sure I'd trust it to a chap of your size. Still, if you have your license, I suppose you must know how to run it."
A shiver passed through Stephen's body. A license! What if the stranger should ask to see it?
There was a heavy fine, he now remembered, for driving a car unless one were in possession of this precious paper, although what the penalty was he could not at the instant recall; he had entirely forgotten there were any such legal details. Fearfully he eyed the mechanic.
The man, however, did not pursue the subject but instead appeared engrossed in carefully inspecting the automobile inside and out. As he poked about, now here, now there, Stephen watched him with constantly increasing nervousness; and after the investigation had proceeded for some little time and no satisfactory result had been reached, the boy's heart sank. Something very serious must be the matter if the trouble were so hard to locate, he reasoned. In imagination he heard his father's indignant reprimands and saw the Northampton trip shrivel into nothingness.
The workman in the meantime remained silent, offering no comment to relieve his anxiety. What he was thinking under the shabby visor cap pulled so low over his brows it was impossible to fathom. His hand was now unscrewing the top of the gasoline tank.
"You've got your engine nicely warmed up, youngster," observed he casually. "Maybe 'twas just as well you did come to a stop. You must have covered the ground at a pretty good clip."
There certainly was something very disconcerting about the stranger's conversation and again Stephen looked at him with suspicion.
"Oh, I don't know," he mumbled, trying to assume an off-hand air. "Perhaps we did come along fairly fast."
"You weren't alone then."
"N—o," was the uncomfortable reply. "The fellows who sent you back from the village were with me."
For the first time the workman evinced surprise.
"Nobody sent me," he retorted. "I just thought as I was going by that you looked as if you were up against it, and as I happen to know something about engines I pulled up to give you a helping hand. The fix you are in isn't serious, though." He smiled broadly as if something amused him.
"What is the matter with the car?" demanded the boy desperately, in a voice that trembled with eagerness and anxiety and defied all efforts to remain under his control.
"Why, son, nothing is wrong with your car. You've got no gasoline, that's all."
"Gasoline!" repeated the lad blankly.
"Sure! You couldn't have had much aboard when you started, I guess. It managed to bring you as far as this, however, and here you came to a stop. The up-grade of the hill tipped the little gas you did have back in the tank so it would not run out, you see. Fill her up again and she'll sprint along as nicely as ever."
The relief that came with the information almost bowled Steve over.
For a moment he could not speak; then when he had caught his breath he exclaimed excitedly:
"How can I get some gasoline?"
His rescuer laughed at the fevered question.
"Why, I happen to have a can of it here on my truck," he drawled, "and I can let you have part of it if you are so minded."
"Oh, I don't want to take yours," objected the boy.
"Nonsense! Why not? I am going right past a garage on my way back and can get plenty more. We'll tip enough of mine into your tank to carry you home. It won't take a minute."
The suggestion was like water to the thirsty.
"All right!" cried Stephen. "If you will let me pay for it I shall be mightily obliged to you. I'm mightily obliged anyway."
"Pshaw! I've done nothing," protested the person in the oily jumper. "What are we in the world for if not to do one another a good turn when we can?"
As he spoke he extricated from his conglomerate load of lumber, tools, and boxes a battered can, the contents of which he began to transfer into Stephen's empty tank.
"There!" ejaculated he presently, as he screwed the metal top on. "That isn't all she'll hold, but it will at least get you home. You are going right back, aren't you?"
The boy glanced quickly at the speaker.
"Yes."
"That's right. I would if I were in your place," urged the man.
Furtively Stephen scrutinized the countenance opposite but although the words had contained a mingled caution and rebuke there was not the slightest trace of interest in the face of the speaker, who was imperturbably wiping off the moist nickel cap with a handful of waste from his pocket.
"Yes," he repeated half-absently, "I take it that amount of gas will just about carry you back to Coventry; it won't allow for any detours, to be sure, but if you follow the straight road it ought to fetch you up there all right."
Stephen started and again an interrogation rose to his lips. Who was this mysterious mechanic and why should he assume with such certainty that Coventry was the abiding place of the car? He longed to ask but a fear of lengthening the interview prevented him from doing so. If he began to ask questions might not the stranger assume the same privilege and wheel upon him with some embarrassing inquiry? No, the sooner he was clear of this wizard in the brown overalls the better. But for the sake of his peace of mind he should like to know whether the man really knew who he was or whether his comments were simply matters of chance. There certainly was something very uncanny and uncomfortable about it all, something that led him to feel that the person in the jumper was fully acquainted with his escapade, disapproved of it, and meant to prevent him from prolonging it. Yet as he took a peep into the kindly blue eyes which he did not trust himself to meet directly he wondered if this assumption were not created by a guilty conscience rather than by fact. Certainly there was nothing accusatory in the other's bearing. His face was frankness itself. In books criminals were always fearing that people suspected them, reflected Steve. The man knew nothing about him at all. It was absurd to think he did.
Nevertheless the boy was eager to be gone from the presence of those searching blue eyes and therefore he climbed into his car, murmuring hurriedly:
"You've been corking to help me out!"