As soon as the storm let up we went across to the hotel, only to be told that there was not an empty bed or a cot. We canvassed the town with the same result. So there we were, worn out, dirty, hungry, and feeling “all in,” with the cheerful prospect of sleeping on a pile of sand in the car or trying to drive across more than a hundred miles of desert to find a bed that night. Here is where I “struck.” “I am not going another mile,” I declared, with a finality in my voice that spoke volumes. “What do you wish to do?” asked a weary husband. “Ship the car to Reno, and take the train.” Our watches said five o’clock, and the Overland Limited was due at 6:15 P. M. Husband hunted up the freight agent. “Oh, yes, you can ship the car; but--” The first “but” was that the car was too large to get through the freight-shed door. We must leave it on the platform or in a garage until an “automobile car” came through Montello, and that might not be for several days. Besides, the agent said he could not give us a bill of lading if the car was not in the shed. It was out of the question to leave it on the platform, and to put it in a strange garage, with no one responsible for it, was taking a long chance that we might never see it again, or that it would be used or damaged or detained indefinitely. Here friend husband asserted himself. “I am not going to leave that car here unless it is locked up in the freight-shed and I have the receipt for it. You take the train and I will drive the car to Reno.” “What! let you go on alone, as tired as you are? Nothing doing! Mr. T. G. M., the car is going to be shipped, and we are going on that 6:15 train.” I admit that my language was not very elegant; neither was the place nor my feelings. “If that is the situation, then the car goes into that shed,” he said. “It can’t be done,” said the agent. “We have tried to get Cadillacs and other large cars in there before. If you get your car in there, I’ll eat it!” “What about time?” we inquired of the agent. He informed us that we must set our watches back an hour at Montello; so we had over an hour, and the train was marked up “late.” For the next hour my husband worked over that car, backing a few inches, going forward a bit, turning and twisting on the narrow platform; but the car was still diagonally across the doorway. Two men pitched in and helped. An inspiration!--he poured black oil on the floor under the rear wheels and then tried to slide the wheels over. That would have worked if the floor had not been so rough. Another inspiration!--he jacked up the wheels and gave the car another shove. Over it went, with both rear wheels inside the door! Then he backed the car into the shed as neat as a whistle. It all sounds like a perfectly simple job. Try it some time in your leisure hours. The freight agent took off his hat in admiration. “Didn’t believe it could be done,” he said, looking at me with a grin.