After about an hour we had every nut and screw in the forward part of the engine in rows on the running board. My task was to take the parts as Toby unscrewed them, and lay them neatly from left to right, so that we should know in what order to replace them. Then I glanced at the remains which Toby had succeeded in uncovering. “The distributor needs cleaning,” I said expertly, thereby greatly impressing Toby. I remembered Bill had said the same thing, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember what the distributor was. By opening the cock of our tank, and holding a tin cup beneath, catching a drop at a time we managed in another hour to get enough gasoline to bathe the affected parts, as druggist’s directions say. So far, not a hitch. And then a little wire flapped before our eyes which seemingly had no connection with any other part. Toby thought it belonged in one place, and for the sake of argument, I held out for another, but neither of us was sure enough to make a point of our opinion. Meanwhile the car could not start until this wire was hitched to something, yet we dared not risk a short-circuit by connecting it to the wrong screw. So we stood still in the hot, dusty road and waited for something to turn up. “I have a hunch, Toby,” I said, “that when we really give up and go for help, the old lady will begin running again.” “Then you’d better start at once,” said Toby. “No, it won’t be as simple as that. We shall have to work for what we get.” At this moment a Ford containing four men drew up and stopped. We explained our trouble. “You took it apart without knowing how to put it together again?” said one of them. They exchanged glances which said “How like a woman!” “When we took it apart,” answered Toby with hauteur, “we knew how to put it together again, but so many things have happened in the meantime that the exact process has slipped our minds. But if you will explain the principles of this ignition system to us I think we can manage.” The man muttered something about a Ford not having one, and drove on. Like most men, he was willing to stay as long as he could appear in a superior light, but no longer. Though they were poor consolation, the horizon looked very lonely after they left. Later in the afternoon, two Indian boys with fish-poles over their shoulders sauntered by. Having exhausted our combined knowledge we had decided to give up and telephone to the nearest garage. I hastened to them, not knowing when we should again see a human soul. “How far away is the nearest garage?” I asked them. The younger boy giggled, but the older answered in very good, soft-spoken English, “At Browning, fifty miles away.” A hundred dollars for towing, and days of delay! I caught at a straw. “Is there by any chance an electrician back at the lumber camp?” “No, ma’am.” Then noticing my despair, he added diffidently, “I studied electricity at Carlisle. Perhaps I can help you.”