its hard work," said Mr. Barrymore;
so he got down and asked a boy to bring some, ordering at the same time
a siphon of fizzy lemonade for everybody. While we were sipping the
cold, sweet stuff, Mr. Barrymore burst out laughing, and we all looked
up to see what was the matter. There was that silly boy bringing a pint
of water, in a _carafe_, to pour into the tank of the motor; and he
seemed quite surprised and disgusted when he was told to go back and
fetch about twenty litres more.

The automobile had thoughtfully slowed down in the one bit of shade
there was; still it was tremendously hot, and we realized that it was
only the motion of the car which had kept us from finding it out before.
We should have been miserable if we hadn't changed our tailor
motoring-costumes for the holland dresses and coats which we'd bought
ready-made at the last moment, in Monte Carlo. In spite of them,
however, we were glad when the water was in, and the motor-car's heart
began to beat again. Then down went ours, for after a dozen throbs the
comforting sound grew faint and presently stopped. "There's no proper
explosion," Mr. Barrymore announced in a puzzled way. "I'm afraid the
petrol I bought in Milan wasn't very good; the Italian never is as good
as the French, though it's more expensive. But perhaps it's only
'tired.' I'll empty it out and put in some fresh."

He did, but the poor automobile was not revived by the change; and Mr.
Barrymore began to peer about in the inner workings of the thing to see
what had gone wrong. He examined the _bougie_, whatever that was, and
cleaned the aspiration valve with petrol, all of which took time; and
what with the heat, and the noise the peasants in the inn-garden made
with their _boules_, I began to get the feeling that Beechy calls
"caterpillars in the spine." Just when they were crawling up and down my
marrow, however, Mr. Barrymore cried out, "Eureka! it's the pump."

This exclamation didn't convey much to me, but it was encouraging that
he seemed pleased; and when he had adjusted the friction roller against
a fly-wheel, or something queer and ticklish of that sort, we flew away
from Erba at a splendid pace, as if the car had decided to let bygones
be bygones.

We ran beautifully along a smooth and level road that was trying to make
up for its evil past, by the side of a small but pretty lake, and it
seemed as if our troubles were over at last. But the astonishment on the
faces of the peas