Then he replenished the oil in the motor generously, cranked and went bumping along down the trail worn rough with the trucks from Lucky Lode.
For a little way he jounced along the trail; then the motor began to labor; and although Casey pulled the gas lever down as far as it would go, the car slowed and stopped dead in the road.

After an hour of fruitless monkey-wrenching and swearing and sweating, Casey began to suspect something.

He examined both cans, "hefted" them, smelt and even tasted the one half-empty, and decided that Ford auty-_mo_-biles do not require two quarts of syrup at one dose.

He thought that a little syrup ought not to make much difference, but half a gallon was probably too much.
He put in more oil on top of the syrup, but he could not even move the crank, much less "turn 'er over." So long as a man can wind the crank of a Ford he seems able to keep alive his hopes.

Casey could not crank, wherefore he knew himself beaten even while he heaved and lifted and swore, and strained every muscle in his back lifting again.