Part 7 (2/2)

The driver and his accomplice had not noticed their loss, and when we had brushed off and restored the old gentleman, he said ”Thank G.o.d!” and went firmly over to the depot, where he took the next train for home, leaving no word behind in case his friends should return--which they did that afternoon and searched mournfully at a snail's pace for over twenty miles on both sides of our town.

Since the automobile has begun to rage in our midst, the garage is the center of our city life. The machine owners stop each day for lubricating oil and news and conversation; the non-owners stroll over to inspect the visiting cars and give advice when necessary; and the loafers have abandoned the implement store, Emerson's restaurant, and the back of McMuggins' drug store in favor of the garage, because they find about seven times as much there to talk about. The city garage can't compare with ours for adventure and news. I have spent a few hours in your most prominent car-nurseries and I haven't heard anything but profanity on the part of the owners and Broadway talk among the chauffeurs.

In the country it's different. Take a busy day at Gayley's, for instance. It usually opens about three A.M., when Gayley crawls out of bed in response to a cataract of woe over the telephone and goes out nine miles. .h.i.ther or yon to haul in some foundered brother. Gayley has a soft heart and is always going out over the country at night to reason with some erring engine; but since last April first, when he traveled six miles at two A.M. in response to a call and found a toy automobile lying bottom-side up in the road, he has become suspicious and embittered, and has raised his prices.

At six A.M. Worley Gates, who farms eight miles south, comes in to catch an early train and delivers the first bulletin. The roads to the south are drying fast, but he went down the clay hill sidewise and had to go through the bottom on low. At seven, Wimble Horn and Colonel Ackley and Sim Bone drop in while waiting for breakfast. Bone thinks he'll drive to Millford, but doesn't think he can get in an hour's business and get back by noon.

This starts the first debate of the day, Colonel Ackley contending that he has done the distance easily in an hour-ten, and Sim being frankly incredulous. Experts decide that it can be done with good roads. Colonel says he can do it in mud and can take the hills on high; says he never goes into low for anything. Bill Elwin, one of our gasless experts, reminds him of the time he couldn't get up Foster's Hill on second and was pa.s.sed by three automobiles and fourteen road roaches. This is a distinct breach of etiquette on Bill's part, for he was riding with Colonel at the time and should have upheld him. The discussion is just getting good when Ackley's wife calls him home to breakfast over the 'phone, and the first tourist of the day comes in.

He has come from the west and has had heavy weather. He asks about the roads east. Gibb Ogle, our leading pessimist, hastens to inform him that very likely the roads are impa.s.sable, because the Highway Commissioners have been improving them. Out our way road improvement consists of tearing the roads out with a sc.r.a.per and heaping them up in the middle.

It takes a road almost a year to recover from a good, thorough case of improvement.

The stranger goes on dejectedly, and about nine A.M. young Andy Link roars in with his father's car, which he has taken away from the old man and converted into a racer by the simple process of taking off the m.u.f.fler and increasing the noise to one hundred miles per hour. Andy declares that there has been no rain to the northwest and that he has done sixty miles already this morning, but can't get his carbureter to working properly, as usual. By this time several owners and a dozen critics have a.s.sembled, and the morning debate on gasoline versus motor spirit takes place. It ends a tie and both sides badly winded, when Pelty Amthorne drives in, very mad. He has been over to Paynesville and back. This is only twenty miles, but owing to the juicy and elusive condition of the roads, his rear wheels have traveled upward of two thousand miles in negotiating the distance and he has worn out two rear casings.

Right here I wish to state that Homeburg roads are not always muddy. We average three months of beautiful, smooth, resilient and joltless roads each year. The remaining nine months, however, I mention with pain.

Illinois boosters say our beautiful rich black soil averages ten feet in depth, but I think this understates the case--at least our beautiful black dirt roads seem to be deeper than that in the spring. What we need in the spring in Illinois are locks and harbor lights, and the man who invents an automobile buoyant enough to float on its stomach and paddle its way swiftly to and fro on the heaving bosom of our April roads will be a public benefactor.

Pelty is justly indignant, because he had hoped to get another thousand miles of actual travel out of his tires. We sympathize with him, but in the middle of his grief Chet Frazier drives up. When he sees his ancient enemy, he climbs out of his car, comes hastily over to where Pelty is erupting, and starts trading autos with him.

Did you ever hear a couple of seasoned horse traders discussing each other's wares? Horse traders are considerate and tender of each other's feelings compared with two rural automobile owners who are talking swap with any enthusiasm.

”h.e.l.lo, Pelty,” says Chet. ”Separator busted again?”

Everybody laughs, and Chet walks all around the machine. ”Why, it ain't a separator at all,” he finally says. ”What is it, Pelty?”

”If you'd ever owned an automobile you'd know,” grunts Amthorne, hauling off a tire. ”What's become of that tinware exhibit you used to block up traffic with?”

Chet gets the laugh this time.

”That tinware exhibit stepped over from Jenniesburg in thirty minutes flat this morning,” says Chet. ”Lucky you weren't on the road. I'd have thrown mud on your wind s.h.i.+eld.”

”Say!” Pelty shouts. ”Your machine couldn't fall ten miles in thirty minutes. Why don't you get a real automobile? What will you give me to boot for mine?”

They are off, and business in the vicinity suspends.

”I'll trade with you, Pelty,” says Chet calmly--quite calmly. ”Let me look it over.”

He walks carefully around the auto, opens the hood and looks in. ”Funny engine, isn't it? I saw one like that at the World's Fair.”

Pelty has the hood of Chet's machine open too and is right there with the retort courteous. ”Is this an engine or a steam heater?” he asks.

”What pressure does she carry?”

”She never heats at all except when I run a long time on low,” Chet says eagerly.

”Oh, yes,” says Pelty, ”I never have to go into low much--”

”Gos.h.!.+” Chet explodes. ”When you go up Sanders Hill, they have to close two district schools for the noise.”

”Only time you ever heard me I was hauling you up with your broken jack-shaft,” snorts Pelty. ”You ought to get some iron parts for your car. Cheese has gone out of style.”

”You still use it for tires, I see,” says Chet.

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