In ten minutes they were in the midst
of the forest.
Now, Fate the bully, punishing the unlucky, tripping up the hurried,
stepped in again. This car, which had been seized in a hurry by cold and
yawning men, was not as she should be.
"Is she oiled?" Foss had called to the real driver of the car.
"She is ... everything!" answered the man, in a hurry, going off to his
coffee. She was not.
Just as the approaching sun began to clear the air, just as with a
spring at her heart Fanny felt that to be present at the opening of a
fine day was worth all the trouble in the world, the engine began to
knock. She saw Foss's head tilt a little sideways, like a keen dog who
is listening. The knock increased. The engine laboured, a grinding set
in; Foss pulled up at the side of the road and muttered to Alfred. He
opened the bonnet, stared a second, then tried the starting handle. It
would not move. Fanny let down the pane of glass and watched them in
silence. "Not a drop," said Foss's low voice. And later, "Oil, yes,
but--find me the tin!"
"Do you mean there is no oil, no spare oil--" Alfred hunted vainly round
the car, under the seats, in the tool box. There was no tin of oil.
"If I had some oil," said Foss, "and if I let her cool a little, I could
manage--with a syringe."
They consulted together. Alfred nodded, and approached the window.
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