"Would you mind shoving on that side, just a little bit?" he suggested to Mr. Boltwood, who ceased the elaborate smoking of cigars, dusted his hands, and gravely obeyed, while Claire was awaiting the new captain's command to throw on the power. "I wish we weren't under so much obligation to this young man," said Mr. Boltwood, after one crisis. "I know but--what can we do?" "Don't you suppose we might pay him?" "Henry B. Boltwood, if you tried to do that---- I'm not sure. Your being my parent might save you, but even so, I think he'd probably chase you off the road, clear down into that chasm." "I suppose so. Shall we have to entertain him in Seattle?" "Have to? My dear parent, you can't keep me from it! Any of the Seattle friends of Gene Gilson who don't appreciate that straight, fine, aspiring boy may go---- Not overdo it, you understand. But---- Oh, take him to the theater. By the way; shall we try to climb Mount Rainier before----" "See here, my good dolly; you stop steering me away from my feeble parental efforts. Do you wish to be under obligations----" "Don't mind, with Milt. He wouldn't charge interest, as Jeff Saxton would. Milt is, oh, he's folks!" "Quite true. But are we? Are you?" "Learning to be!" Between discussions and not making hills, Claire cleaned the spark plugs as they accumulated carbon from the surplus oil--or she pretended to help Milt clean them. The plugs were always very hot, and when you were unscrewing the jacket from the core, you always burned your hand, and wished you could swear ... and sometimes you could. After noon, when they had left the Park and entered Gardiner, Milt announced, "I've got to stick around a while. The key in my steering-gear seems to be worn. May have to put in a new one. Get the stuff at a garage here. If you wouldn't mind waiting, be awful glad to tag, and try to give a few helping hands till the oil cleans itself out." "I'll just stroll on," she said, but she drove away as swiftly as she could. Her father's worry about obligations disturbed her, and she did not wish to seem too troublesome an amateur to Milt. She would see him in Livingston, and tell him how well she had driven. The spark plugs kept clean enough now so that she could command more power, but---- Between the Park and the transcontinental road there are many climbs short but severely steep; up-shoots like the humps on a scenic railway. To tackle them with her uncertain motor was like charging a machine-gun nest. She spent her nerve-force lavishly, and after every wild rush to make a climb, she had to rest, to rub the suddenly aching back of her neck. Because she was so tired, she did not take the trouble to save her brakes by going down in gear. She let the brakes smoke while the river and railroad below rose up at her.