“Nights I do, sometimes.”
There came a harsh hissing from the front of the truck.
Tom grabbed the wheel tight and he thrust the brake down to the floor.
The truck bumped to a stop.
Tom sighed.
“Well, there she is.” He leaned back in the seat.
Al leaped out and ran to the right front tire.
“Great big nail,” he called.
“We got any tire patch?”
“No,” said Al. “Used it all up.
Got patch, but no glue stuff.”
Tom turned and smiled sadly at Ma.
“You shouldn’ a tol’ about that dollar,” he said.
“We’d a fixed her some way.” He got out of the car and went to the flat tire.
Al pointed to a big nail protruding from the flat casing.
“There she is!”
“If they’s one nail in the county, we run over it.”
“Is it bad?” Ma called.
“No, not bad, but we got to fix her.”
The family piled down from the top of the truck.
“Puncture?” Pa asked, and then he saw the tire and was silent.
Tom moved Ma from the seat and got the can of tire patch from underneath the cushion.
He unrolled the rubber patch and took out the tube of cement, squeezed it gently.
“She’s almos’ dry,” he said. “Maybe they’s enough.
Awright, Al. Block the back wheels.
Le’s get her jacked up.”
Tom and Al worked well together.
They put stones behind the wheels, put the jack under the front axle, and lifted the weight off the limp casing. They ripped off the casing.
They found the hole, dipped a rag in the gas tank and washed the tube around the hole.
And then, while Al held the tube tight over his knee, Tom tore the cement tube in two and spread the little fluid thinly on the rubber with his pocket knife.
He scraped the gum delicately.
“Now let her dry while I cut a patch.” He trimmed and beveled the edge of the blue patch.
Al held the tube tight while Tom put the patch tenderly in place. “There!
Now bring her to the running board while I tap her with a hammer.” He pounded the patch carefully, then stretched the tube and watched the edges of the patch.
“There she is! She’s gonna hold.
Stick her on the rim an’ we’ll pump her up.
Looks like you keep your buck, Ma.”
Al said,
“I wisht we had a spare.
We got to get us a spare, Tom, on a rim an’ all pumped up.
Then we can fix a puncture at night.”
“When we get money for a spare we’ll get us some coffee an’ side-meat instead,” Tom said.
The light morning traffic buzzed by on the highway, and the sun grew warm and bright.
A wind, gentle and sighing, blew in puffs from the southwest, and the mountains on both sides of the great valley were indistinct in a pearly mist.
Tom was pumping at the tire when a roadster, coming from the north, stopped on the other side of the road.
A brown-faced man dressed in a light gray business suit got out and walked across to the truck.
He was bareheaded.
He smiled, and his teeth were very white against his brown skin.
He wore a massive gold wedding ring on the third finger of his left hand.
A little gold football hung on a slender chain across his vest.