Steve and the Steam Engine | Page 2

home they would not be confronted by
irate parents.
How persuasively, reflected Stephen, they had urged him on.
"Oh, be a sport, Steve!" Jack Curtis had coaxed. "Who's going to be the
wiser if you do take the car? Anyhow, you have run it before, haven't
you? I don't believe your father will mind."
"Take a chance, Stevie," his chum, Bud Taylor, pleaded. "What's the
good of being such a boob? Do you think if my father had a car and it
was standing idle in the garage when a bunch of kids needed it to go to
a school game I would hesitate? You bet I wouldn't!"
"It isn't likely your Dad would balk at your using the car if he knew the
circumstances," piped another boy. "We have got that match to play off,
and now that the electric cars are held up by the strike how are we to
get to Torrington? Don't be a ninny, Steve."

Thus they had ridiculed, cajoled, and wheedled Steve until his
conscience had been overpowered and, yielding to their arguments, he
had set forth for the adjoining village with the triumphant throng of
tempters. At first all had gone well. The fourteen miles had slipped past
with such smoothness and rapidity that Stephen, proudly enthroned at
the wheel, had almost forgotten that any shadow rested on the hilarity
of the day. He had been dubbed a good fellow, a true sport, a
benefactor to the school--every complimentary pseudonym
imaginable--and had glowed with pleasure beneath the avalanche of
flattery. As the big car with its rollicking occupants had spun along the
highway, many a passer-by had caught the merry mood of the cheering
group and waved a smiling salutation in response to their shouts.
In the meanwhile, exhilarated by the novelty of the escapade, Steve had
increased the speed until the red car fairly shot over the level macadam,
its blurred outlines lost in the scarlet of the autumn foliage. Then
suddenly when the last half-mile was reached and Torrington village,
the goal of the pilgrimage, was in sight, quite without warning the
panting monster had stopped and all attempts to urge it farther were of
no avail. There it stood, its motionless engine sending out odors of hot
varnish and little shimmering waves of heat.
Immediately a hush had descended upon the boisterous company.
There was a momentary pause, followed by a clamor of advice. When,
however, it became evident that there was no prospect of restoring the
disabled machine to action, one after another of the frightened
schoolboys had dropped out over the sides of the car and after loitering
an instant or two with a sort of shamefaced indecision, at the
suggestion of Bud Taylor they had all set out for the town.
"Tough luck, old chap!" Bud had called over his shoulder. "Mighty
tough luck! Wish we had time to wait and see what's queered the thing;
but the game is called at two-thirty, you know, and we have only about
time to make it. We'll try and hunt up a garage and send somebody
back to help you. So long!"
And away they had trooped without so much as a backward glance,
leaving Stephen alone on the country road, worried, mortified, and

resentful. There was no excuse for their heartless conduct, he fumed
indignantly. They were not all on the eleven. Five of the team had
come over in Tim Barclay's Ford, so that several of the fellows Steve
had brought were merely to be spectators of the game. At least Bud
Taylor, his especial crony, was not playing. He might have remained
behind. How selfish people were, and what a fleeting thing was
popularity! Why, half an hour ago he had been the idol of the crowd!
Then Bud had shouted: "Come ahead, kids, let's hoof it to Torrington!"
and in the twinkling of an eye the tide had turned, the mob had shifted
its allegiance and gone tagging off at the heels of a new leader. They
did not mean to have their pleasure spoiled, not they!
Scornfully Stephen watched them mount the hill, their crimson
sweaters making a zigzag line of color in the sunshine; even their
laughter, care-free as if nothing had happened, floated back to him on
the still air, demonstrating how little concern they felt for him and his
refractory automobile. Well might they proceed light-heartedly to the
village, spend their money on sodas and ice-cream cones, and shout
themselves hoarse at the game. No thought of future punishment
marred their enjoyment and the program was precisely the one he had
outlined for himself before Fate had intervened and raised a prohibitory
hand.
The fun he had missed was, however, of scant consequence now. All he
asked was to get the car safely