Part 7 (1/2)
”Hey, don't git to callin' me no wooden-headed fool!” hollers the mechanic, jumpin' around and wavin' the pliers. ”That's against the union rules, and you'll get the worst of it if I bring it before the board. They must be some mistake here. I thought you wanted me to look over this boat for your friend here and see what it needed. How'd I know you only wanted me to drive? I ain't no mind-reader, I'm a mechanic and--”
”Shut up!” says Alex; ”and drive us out to Tarrytown. As a matter of fact, the car's all right, ain't it?”
”Certainly!” says the mechanic. ”Ain't it a new one? Gimme a cigarette and I'll see if I can get this tin can here to roll.”
It's just about eighteen miles as the pigeon soars from where we started to Runyon Q. Sampson's country home at Tarrytown, and we fled up there in two hours. This car was a wonder on hills, that is it's a wonder we got up 'em at all. We climbed most of 'em with the emergency brake on so's we wouldn't slip back to the garage, and I figured that the car must of been painted yellah in honor of the motor, which quit like a dog every time the goin' got rough. The mechanic drives us in through the entrance of Sampson's domicile, as we remark at the garage, and then stops for encouragement before goin' further. Alex elects me to go up and notify Sampson that we're all set to show him the Gaflooey chummy roadster, while he and the mechanic stays behind to look over the car and see that everything is workin' fairly perfect. I got as far as the porch and a guy in a drum-major's uneyform without the hat nails me. He was as big as the Woolworth Buildin' and just as emotional. He looked like what them stage butlers tries to.
”What would you wish?” he asks, friendly as a traffic cop to a taxi-driver.
”Well, if I thought they was any use,” I says, ”I'd wish I had a million bucks, but as it is, I'd like to see Runyon Q. Sampson, your master.”
”Step this way!” he says, startin' to walk ahead.
”I can't step that way!” I says, watchin' him close. ”It must be a gift. I'll have to folley you in my own way on account of havin' a blowout in my rubber heels an--”
Just then a little bald-headed guy with one of them short gray mustaches which the wealthy banker wears in the movies, crosses our path and the big feller stops and salutes him.
”Gentleman to see you, sir,” he says.
”Hmph!” grunts Runyon Q. Sampson, which is who the little guy was, as the gentle readers has prob'ly guessed. ”I can't see any one now. I have an appointment this afternoon to--”
”I guess I'm that appointment,” I b.u.t.ts in, ”or part of it, anyways.
Was you expectin' to look over a Gaflooey chummy roadster?”
”Well, what of it?” he snaps.
”My lord, the carriage awaits!” I says, makin' a bow.”Folley me and you'll go motorin'!”
”Are you the agent?” he asks, as we walk back over the lawn.
”No,” I says, ”I'm his cousin. He's carryin' me along for luck or somethin'. We also have a mechanic with us in case of fire. Are you fond of automobilin'?”
”Much more so than of conversation!” he barks.
”That stops me!” I says. ”I'm dumb from now on. What is it who's this says? Silence is golden, speech is human--ain't it?”
We have reached the car by this time, and Alex steps forward.
”Good morning, Mister Sampson!” he says. ”I want to thank you for the company and myself, for volunteering your judgment as to whether our new model chummy roadster is a good car or not.”
Sampson walks around it a couple of times, opens the hood, looks at the motor and sniffs.
”It's entirely too small!” he announces. ”The body is grotesque, the paint is a horrible color and the cha.s.sis seems out of alignment.”
”Exactly what I thought you would say!” agrees Alex, noddin' his head like Sampson had raved over the car. ”We will make any changes you suggest. After all, you'll be the one to use it and that makes you the one to be pleased. We have custom made suits, shoes and s.h.i.+rts--why not custom made automobiles?”
”Hmph!” grunts Sampson.
”I'll fall,” I says, hopin' to break the embarra.s.sin' silence. ”Why not?”