The Watermelon was unhappy. By this time they should have been in Harrison, with the parting over, and he wanted it over. The thought that they would probably be together a day longer did not please him. The sooner he took to the road again and became a bum and a hobo, the better. Billy did not care for him. He was the only one who would suffer, and every moment he was with her only made the suffering worse. He turned to Henrietta with relief from the thoughts that were insistently bothering him and would not let him alone. "Father was never in a motor-car," said he. "He used to say that his funeral would be just another irony of fate. The only chance he had to ride, he wouldn’t be able to appreciate it." "I know that it is terrible to be poor," said Henrietta, "but I think people ought to enjoy other things than just those that money can give." "What things?" "Why, the woods and fields, a beautiful day—" "Rent day, probably, and no rent money. Father used to say when you’re poor, every day is rent day." "We’re nearing the end of the woods," cried Bartlett. "And I think I see a house." And then the car stopped. "Gid ap," chirped Bartlett. Henrietta leaned forward. The general was hastily trying all the brakes, slipping one lever then the other, fussing here and fussing there, and Henrietta knew the symptoms of approaching trouble. "Father, is there anything the matter?" "Oh, no," pleaded Billy. "Not here?" The Watermelon leaned forward and opened the door. "Every one get out," he ordered. "We can walk to the house. We mustn’t monkey with the car unless we want a pile of junk on our hands." He stepped out and turned to help the girls. "Not at all," declared the general. "I know all about a car. I can fix it directly." He alighted and started to raise the bonnet. The Watermelon intervened. "Look in the gasolene tank first," he begged. The general was already deep in the mechanism, oblivious to all else. "It’s the carburetor—" "Carburetor nothing," pleaded the Watermelon. "It’s the gasolene." "Yes," agreed Henrietta indiscreetly, "maybe it is." "That won’t help us any," snapped the general angrily. "Where can we get more? Much better to have something else wrong—" "Not for the car," said the Watermelon. "None of us would be able to fix it." "My dear sir," said the general warmly, "I have owned this car for a year—" "I know," murmured the Watermelon. "I think it marvelous." "I am perfectly capable—" "Will you bet with me," interrupted the Watermelon, "that it’s the gasolene? Alphonse may have filled the other car at the expense of this one." It was the gasolene, or rather the lack of gasolene, that had stopped the car. "That’s where a horse beats a car," lamented Henrietta. "You don’t have to keep bothering with their works." She sat down on the car step and clasped her hands in her lap. "We could spend the night here, but in the morning we wouldn’t be any nearer gasolene than we are now."