Tobacco Road - Erskine Caldwell [55]
Dude slowed down when they approached the crossroad where they were to turn off the tobacco road and enter the State highway to Augusta. He did not slow down enough, however, because the momentum swung the load of blackjack to the offside, and the entire top of the pile fell in the road.
Jeeter and Dude worked half an hour getting the wood in place again, and with Bessie helping the little that she could, it was then ready to be tied down again. Jeeter went across the field to a negro cabin and borrowed two plow-lines. He came back and threw them over the wood and tied the ends down tightly.
“Now, that will hold it, durn that blackjack,” he said. “There ain’t nothing else in the world like plow-lines and baling wire. The two together is the best in the world to do anything with. Give me a little of both and I can do any kind of job.”
They were off again, speeding down the highway towards Augusta. The city was now only twelve miles away.
Dude was a good driver, all right; he swung out of the tracks just at the right moment every time he met another automobile. Only two or three times did he almost run head-on into other cars. He was so busy blowing the horn that he forgot to drive on the right-hand side of the road until the last minute. Most of the cars they met gave them plenty of road when they heard the horn blowing.
Jeeter could not talk, because he was holding his breath most of the time. The swiftness of the car frightened him so badly he could not answer Bessie’s questions. She looked grimly ahead most of the time, proud of her automobile and hoping that the negroes and farmers they passed in the fields beside the road would know it belonged to her instead of thinking it was Jeeter’s or Dude’s.
It was between noon and one o’clock when they reached the half-way point. Augusta was then only a little over seven miles away, and when they got to the top of the last hill they would be able to see the city down in the valley beside the big muddy river.
The last hill they had to climb before reaching that point was a long one. It was a mile and a half from the creek at the bottom to the filling-station on top, and they were about half way up, when suddenly the car slowed down to a few miles an hour. The water was boiling in the engine and radiator, and steam shot higher than the top of the wind-shield. The engine was making a great noise, too. It sounded as if it were knocking in the same way that Jeeter’s old car had, only a little harder and a little louder.
“What’s the matter with us?” Bessie said, leaning over the door and looking around outside.
“It must have got hot climbing the hill,” Dude said. “I don’t know what else is wrong with it.”
They went a hundred yards, and the car stopped. The engine choked down, and the steam whistled out of the pipes like pistons on a freight train at the coal chute.
Jeeter jumped out and shoved a big rock under the rear wheel before Dude could put on the brakes. The car stopped rolling backwards.
“What’s the matter with it, Dude?” Bessie said again. “Is something gone wrong?”
“I reckon it just got hot,” he said.
He made no effort to get out. He sat under the steering-wheel, grasping it tightly and jerking it from side to side as far as it would go. Presently he began blowing the horn again.
“That won’t help it none, Dude,” Jeeter said. “You’ll wear out that durn horn before you know it, if you keep doing that all the time. Why don’t you get out and try to do something?