He was standing at the bow of his stranded bark, at the mercy of ancient Milo. Mildred, after locating Milo, had gone on home in her own cloud of smoke.
“Oh they do,” came Milo’s drawl from under the hood. “Problem is, this ain’t no Winnebago engine. Looks like they took out the original and put a replacement in. This here looks somethin’ like one a’ them Phantom engines.”
“The kind they used to put in lawn mowers.”
“Ridin’ lawn mowers,” explained Milo, coming up for air. “Ain’t as bad as it sounds.”
There was a long silence.
Ed finally asked, “So, where do we go from here?”
“My advice to ya would be, take it back to town an’ try ’n’ getcher money back.”
“It’ll make it back to Kirkland okay?”
“That’d be my guess.”
“Think it’d make it to the West Coast?” he ventured.
“Lemme put it to ya this way, Mr. B,” said Milo, wiping the grease off his face with a red handkerchief. “Ya gotta helluva lot better chance a’ gettin’ to the West Coast by pushin’ it than by countin’ on this here piece a’ crap.”