a puzzled look crept over his face. He thrust the lever forward, then back, then wabbled it experimentally, apparently considering what to do next, when . . . Whoosh! . . . The wagon started—with a clatter in every joint—but backward! It leaped backward so suddenly that George all but went over the dashboard.
Rearward in a dizzy circle spun the car, aiming carefully for a spot on the back wall of the factory and accelerating speed with every movement. The driver meanwhile was frantically pulling and hauling at levers and dancing on various pedals. With the wheels all but striking the brick wall they stopped—stopped as suddenly as they had started; and Mr. King, breathing quickly, perspiring profusely, turned, noted the distance of six inches between his precious vehicle and destruction for it, for his guest, and for himself; then sighed with relief and wiped his sleeve across a young but care-lined brow.
"You stopped her just in time," complimented George with an admiring glance at such a cool-headed driver.
Mr. King laughed mirthlessly. "I don't think I stopped her," he confessed, glancing down warily at his feet and carefully refraining from touching any part of the mechanism of control with his hands. "I—don't know why she stopped," he confessed. "I don't know why she
