"We don't have to get there until five-twenty, anyway.

Come on, Clint." They climbed into the back of the car and threw themselves luxuriously against the cushions.
"Home, James," commanded Amy.
The driver turned and grinned.

He was a not-over-clean youth, and his hair was badly in need of a barber's attentions, but he was evidently good-natured.

The car, which was an old one and had undoubtedly seen much better days, swung around and headed back toward Thacher School and the football field.

The youth talked to them over his shoulder.
"She's hard to start," he said, "when she's been standing, but she can go all right.