There was only one passenger in the white car, and he was having his hands full. The runabout would angle from one side of the road to the other, in apparent defiance of the way the steering wheel was held, and sometimes it would go its eccentric course slowly and sometimes with a rush--so far as those in the other car could see--without any change in the speed gear. The driver of the runabout worked frantically to keep the machine where it ought to be, but the task was too much for him. Once a telephone pole gave him a close shave, and once his unmanageable car gave a sidewise lurch that almost hurled it into a machine going the other way. “What’s the matter?” Matt hailed. The man in the runabout looked around with a facial expression that was far from angelic. “If I knew what was the matter with this confounded car,” he cried in exasperation, “do you think I’d be side-stepping all over the road the way I am?” Then, muttering to himself, he humped over the steering wheel again. “He’s happy--I don’t think,” chuckled McGlory. “The car’s getting on his nerves.” “A car like that would get on anybody’s nerves,” commented Billy. “The number’s enough to set mine on edge. Thirteen’s unlucky, no matter where you find it. That’s right. And when you get two thirteens bunched together, you’ve sure got a combination that points a car for the scrap heap. I wouldn’t hold down the cushions in that roadster for all the money in New York. No, sir, that I wouldn’t,” and Billy shook his head forebodingly. “Oh, splash!” scoffed Matt. “When a car fools around like that, Billy, there’s something wrong with its internal apparatus.” “Matt,” went on Billy solemnly, “I’ve seen cars that hadn’t a thing wrong with ’em, but they was just naturally crazy and never’d run right. Steer ’em straight, an’ they’d go crooked; point ’em crooked, an’ they’d go straight; throw on the reverse, an’ they’d go for’ard; give ’em the third speed an’ they’d crawl; give ’em the first an’ they’d tear away like lightnin’--and all the while, mind you, the engine was running as sweet as any engine you ever see. The Old Boy himself takes charge of some cars the moment they’re sold and in a customer’s hands. I’ve worked in a garage for five years, and I know.” Matt laughed. McGlory laughed, too, but not so mirthfully. The cowboy had a little superstition in his make-up and Billy’s remarks had left a fleeting impression. “Gammon, Billy, gammon,” said Matt. “If a car is built right, and works right, it is going to run right. That stands to reason.” “A lot of things happen,” insisted Billy, “that don’t stand to reason. Now, take that runabout. The engine’s working fine--from the sound of it. Eh?” Matt admitted that, so far as the hum of the motor was concerned, the machinery seemed to be doing its part. “Well, then,” cried the triumphant Billy, “why don’t the blooming car run like it ought to?” “It’s the steering gear that’s wrong,” Matt answered, “not the engine, or----” Bang!