"Keep right, Fred-right!
Oh gosh, now we can't make the exit," muttered the girl as the sedan rolled
alongside a truck and an exit ramp appeared on the right.
Tight-lipped, the young man
who was driving sped past the long trailer.
"Should have told me before
we got to it," he grumbled. "It's sure too late now."
"I know," she said miserably.
"I thought you'd remember. Now we have to go six miles out of our way
and six back."
Fred looked in the mirror.
Well ahead of the trailer, he returned to the right lane, slowed, and pulled
onto the shoulder. As the car stopped, the truck and a long string of
traffic behind it roared by.
"What's wrong now?" the girl
asked.
"I've had enough of the
seeing-eye bit," Fred snapped. You know this turnpike, and it's your
Dad's car, so you drive it.
He put the shift into
neutral, opened the door and began to get out.
"You're just sore because you
couldn't take your Ghia," retorted the girl, hitching herself over the seat.
Fred was already walking
around. She swung one foot over the floor hump, and suddenly the
idling engine roared. Fred leaped in alarm, but the car didn't budge,
though the engine reached a screaming crescendo before the young man could
go around and tear the door open. The girl was halfway across the
seat, one leg bent oddly, her foot, in a high-heeled shoe, awkwardly jammed
on the gas pedal.
"Turn it off, Lucy!" Fred
yelled above the banshee howl of the motor.
"White-faced, she did not
move. Before Fred could reach the switch, the engine stopped like a
sound tape snipped short. In deafening silence, he turned off the
ignition, then worked the girl's foot free.
"Move over, Lucy," he said
gently. "I guess you won't want to drive now."
He sat behind the wheel fully
half a minute before turning the ignition key.
A dull thunk was the only
response.
Switching off the ignition,
he put the shift lever in high, then got out and tried to rock the car.
"Shoulder's too soft," he
muttered, getting in again. Once more he tried the starter.
Again there was a dull thud.
"That's it," said Fred.
"We're stuck until someone sends a tow truck. Let's have your scarf to
tie to the door handle."
A stocky, square-jawed man in
a sports coat was pacing before the Benson showroom as Gus stopped the Model
Garage tow truck at the curb.
"I'm Herb Radcliffe, who
phoned you," said the man. "I wanted to meet you out here before we go
inside.
"Okay, I'm listening,"
answered Gus.
"My daughter and her
boyfriend were going upstate last weekend in my Chevy. He was driving,
but on the way they decided to change off. In sliding over, her foot
jammed the gas pedal and the engine almost ran off its mounts. Before
they could stop it, it quit and wouldn't start again.
"Lucy had it towed here
because it's where I bought the car, I wouldn't let them fix a tricycle
myself, They once charged me for work that should have been under the
warranty, So it's the money, not just the principle of the thing," confessed
Radcliffe. Anyway, it's getting old. I was going to let Lucy
take it back to college for her last term, then trade it in next year, so it
isn't worth spending much on."
"Did they say what was
wrong?" asked Gus.
Radcliffe shrugged.
They're guessing. They say my daughter must have panicked, tried to
switch off the engine, and turned on the starter instead, jamming the
starter and flywheel teeth. They say the solenoid's probably shot and
the flywheel teeth are broken, so she'll need a new flywheel.
"But Lucy and the boy swear
she didn't touch the key=the engine stopped by itself. I told the
service manager that I wanted to call in another expert. He didn't
like it, but here we are. I'll pay whatever you think right for
whatever you do."
As they entered the repair
shop, a big redheaded man frowned at them angrily.
"I told you what we decided,"
he said.
"I told you I wanted somebody
to backstop you," retorted Radcliffe. "Here he is."
"If you have so little
confidence in us," said the redhead, flushing, "you'd better pay for the tow
and diagnosis and have your crate hauled out of here."
Gus went out to get the tow
truck.
Back at the Model Garage, Gus
tried the starter of the Chevy. The thunk was exactly like that heard
from the solenoid when the battery is too weak to crank the starter.
But a hydrometer read 1.260, and all battery, solenoid, and starter
connections proved to be clean and secure.
On a load-meter test, the
battery fell only to 10 volts under a 200-ampere draw, confirming that it
was in fairly good shape. Propping the meter where he could see it,
Gus turned the key again to "start." The needle dropped to three
volts, indicating the heavy draw of a locked armature.
Gus disconnected the meter,
then loosened the starter. It came off with no indication of jammed
teeth. On a test bench he connected it and the solenoid to a 12-volt
battery. Both worked perfectly.
After removing the power
steering belt. He tried to turn the engine by hand. It wouldn't budge.
Crankshaft and block might have well been one solid chunk.
Gus removed the spark plugs,
and mixed a pint of penetrating oil with as much kerosene. With a
siphon bulb, he squirted a few ounces in each cylinder, then replaced the
plugs and the starter.
Late in the afternoon, a
saucy horn announced the arrival of a sleek little sports car. The
young man who stepped out of the black Karmann Ghia glared at the Chevrolet.
"I'm Fred Clark. I was
there when that bus conked out. Any luck with it?"
"Too soon to tell," replied
Gus.
"It would never have happened
if this glorified VW hadn't let me down." He jerked a thumb at the
Ghia. "Lucy Radcliffe and I go to the same college, and I drove her
home in my car. On the throughway, it began to miss at high speeds.
We had to poke along under 50."
"We stopped to put in new
points, plugs, even a condenser. It still missed. I got a new
coil and plug wires, and put on a spare fuel pump that I carry.
Nothing helped. It runs fine cold, but as soon as it warms up it runs at 50
per."
Gus raised the engine deck,
lifted off the distributor cap, and turned the engine over to bring the
breaker point on a high spot of the cam. The gap checked out at
sixteen thousandths.
"Let's take a ride," he
suggested.
Acceleration was good through
all gears. Gus tentatively ruled out a clogged exhaust system, dirty
air cleaner, sticking choke, and defective vacuum advance. A mile's
run warmed the engine and brought them to an expressway. As Gus opened
the throttle, the little car leaped forward, reaching 65 with plenty of
pedal left. But half a mile later it suddenly faltered, dropping
rapidly below the 50 mark. There it cruised smoothly, but when Gus
floored the throttle the car surged forward only momentarily.
It felt like fuel trouble,
Gus thought as he headed back. If the ignition were cutting
out-because of point bounce, say-the car would hold that critical 50-m.p.h.
speed without responding to more gas as it did. Unless both fuel pumps
were defective, or the pump stroke too short, the trouble must be in the
carb. Or the fuel line-which had, Gus recalled, a vulnerable link in
it.
"What're you looking for
there?"
"Your high speed miss,"
replied Gus, emerging, some limp tubing in his hand.
"This connects the gas line
from the tank to one that goes through the front wall in the engine
compartment," Gus explained.
"It's synthetic rubber, gone
soft from heat and age. When the fuel pump pulls a lot of gas at high
speed, the tubing collapses and chokes off fuel as if you'd pinched
it."
"At lower speed the suction
is less, so it passes gas."
"Why did it work with a cold
engine?"
"While cold, the tubing was
stiff and didn't collapse. I'll put on a new piece."
On a second road test the
Ghia hit 80.
At noon the next day,
Radcliffe appeared.
"Heard you licked Fred's
trouble," he said. "What's the word on my car?"
"Let's go try it," suggested
Gus.
He got into the Chevy and
turned the key. There was a thunk, a hesitation, and then the started
ground sluggishly. In a second or two, it turned faster.
Suddenly the engine fired, with a belch of blue smoke. The oil warning
light blinked off.
"Migosh!" gasped Radcliffe at
the bluish exhaust. It never did that before."
"That's just some solvent oil
I put in burning out," Gus assured him. Clapping an exhaust hose to
the tailpipe, he let the car idle for a short time, then drove it onto a
lift and cut the engine.
"The parts seized," Gus
explained to Radcliffe, "because the throttle was full open for too long at
such high revs they didn't get enough oil. When the existing oil film
was scraped off, tiny hot spots practically welded themselves together."
"Why did the oil fail just
because the engine was revving up? I've had this car do 90, and cruise
all day at 75."
"It never revved up as fast,
even at high road speeds, as it did running with no load," returned Gus.
"It threw off oil mighty fast, and at that speed the oil pump output tends
to fall off because of cavitation-that is, the pump spins a hole in the oil
instead of moving the stuff along."
"You think it did the engine
any harm?"
"It didn't improve it
any-probably took 30,000 miles out of it. In 10,000 miles or so more,
it may start pumping oil."
"But it's okay for now?"
Gus nodded. I'd change
the oil-that engine needs the best of lubrication now-add a pint of
friction-reducing agent, and drive slowly for the first hour."
"Okay," agreed Radcliffe.
"I'm glad I don't have to pay for a flywheel because it looks like I'll have
to pay for a wedding soon."
"In that case, you don't have
to worry about how long this car's going to last."
"Why not?" asked Radcliffe.
"It'll last out this term,"
Gus assured him. "Then it'll be up to the Ghia."
END
