So for two hours Claire and her father experienced that most distressing
of motor experiences--waiting, while the afternoon that would have been
so good for driving went by them. Every fifteen minutes they came in
from sitting on a dry-goods box in front of the garage, and never did
the repair appear to be any farther along. The boy seemed to be giving
all his time to getting the wrong wrench, and scolding the older man for
having hidden the right one.
When she had left Brooklyn Heights, Claire had not expected to have such
authoritative knowledge of the Kalifornia Kandy Kitchen, Saddle Back,
Montana, across from Tubbs' Garage, that she could tell whether they
were selling more Atharva Cigarettes or Polutropons. She prowled about
the garage till she knew every pool of dripped water in the tin pail of
soft soap in the iron sink.
She was worried by an overheard remark of the boy wonder, "Gosh, we
haven't any more of that decent brake lining. Have to use this piece of
mush." But when the car was actually done, nothing like a dubious brake
could have kept her from the glory of starting. The first miles seemed
miracles of ease and speed.
She came through the mountains into Livingston.
Kicking his heels on a fence near town, and fondling a gray cat, sat
Milt Daggett, and he yelped at her with earnestness and much noise.