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“Millington,” I said, “did you see where that ball went?”
“I did,” he said, turning to the left. “It went over there, into that tall grass. It is a lost ball. Every ball that goes into that tall grass is gone forever. I have never known any one to recover a ball that fell in that tall grass.”
Then he stepped proudly to the sand-box and made another tee.
“Hand me a ball,” he said, “and I will show you the proper way to hit it.”
I gave him a ball and he placed it carefully on the tee. Then he grasped his driver in both hands, snuggled the head of it up to the ball lovingly, drew back the club and struck the ball. I was not quick enough to see the ball go, but Millington was.
“Fine!” he exclaimed. “I sliced it a little, but I must have got good distance. I must have driven that ball two hundred yards.”
“But where did it go?” I asked.
“Well,” said Millington, “I did slice it a little. It went off there to the right, into that tall grass. It is a lost ball. I have never known any one to recover a ball that fell in that tall grass. But let me have another ball and I will show you—”
I told Millington I guessed I would lose a couple of balls myself while I had a few left, if it was not against the rules. He said no, a player could lose as many as he wished; in fact many players lost more than they wished.
I found this to be so. We played around the nine holes and I made a score of 114, and Millington was delighted. He said it was a splendid score to turn in to the handicapping committee, and that he wished he could make a large, safe score like that. He said no one in the club had ever made more than 110 and that the average was about 45. Then he said I need not lose hope, for at any rate I had not lost a ball at every stroke. He said he had imagined when he saw me play that I would lose a ball at every stroke, for my style of playing—my “form” he called it—was the sort that ought to lose me one ball for every stroke.
When I reached home I found Isobel awaiting me, and, without thinking, I blurted out that I had lost thirty-eight golf balls. Her mouth hardened.
“John,” she said, “I have been talking with Mrs. Rolfs and Mrs. Millington about this game of golf, and what they say has given me an entirely different opinion of it. When I advised you to take it up I had no idea it was a gambling game, but they both tell me the matches are often played for a stake of balls. Mrs. Rolfs says her husband has accumulated eighty balls in this way, and Mrs. Millington says her husband has laid up a store of over fifty. And now, when you come home and tell me you have lost, in one afternoon, thirty-eight golf balls, at a cost of fifty cents each, I feel that golf is a wicked, sinful game. I do not want to seem severe, but I do not approve of gambling, and if you continue to lose so many golf balls you will have to give up the game.”
THAT evening Millington dropped over to chat for a few minutes, and he was in good spirits. He told me he had found the automobile where I had left it with its nose against the tree, and that it had been necessary to hire a team to pull it home. Isobel said she would never forget the pleased expression on Millington's face as he saw the helpless machine being towed into his yard, and between what both of them said I felt rightly proud at having lifted such a load from his mind.
“Now,” said Millington cheerfully, “we can all start for Port Lafayette in the morning. I will get up at four to-morrow morning and tinker at the motor, and by nine, or ten at the latest, we will be ready to start.”
At ten the next morning, therefore, Isobel and I went over to Millington's garage, but our first glimpse of him told us all was not well. He was sitting on the garage step with his head buried in his arms, while his wife was sitting beside him, vainly endeavouring to console him. For awhile he made no response to my queries, and then he only raised his mournful face and pointed at the automobile. He was too overcome for words, and his wife had to give us the awful facts.
“This morning at four,” she said, “Edward came out and prepared to do what he could to repair the motor you had so kindly put to the bad. He was then his usual, cheerful self. He leaped lightly into the chauffeur's seat, touched the starting lever, and, to his utter distress, the automobile moved smoothly out of the garage and down the driveway, without a single misplaced throb or sign of disorder. There was nothing the matter with the automobile at all. Not a thing to repair. It was as if it had just come from the factory. Of course he immediately gave up all idea of the little run to Port Lafayette. Now, there is only one thing to be done. You must take the machine and run it around the block until it is in a fit condition to be repaired. I am afraid you did not do a good job yesterday.”
Although I felt rather hurt by the last words, I was not a man to desert Millington in his need, and without a word I jumped into the automobile and started. That morning I put in some hard work. It seemed that the automobile had repaired itself so well that nothing would ever be the matter with it again, but by persistent efforts and by doing everything an amateur could possibly do to ruin an automobile, I succeeded in developing its weak spots. Not until noon was I satisfied, but when the horses at last pulled the automobile into Millington's garage I felt I had done my duty. I had mashed the hood and cracked a cylinder, dished the left front wheel and absolutely ruined all the battery connections. I would have defied any man to make that automobile run one inch. It had been hard work, but I was amply repaid when Millington threw his arms around me and wept for joy on my shoulder. He was not usually a demonstrative man.
“Next week, or the week after, John,” he said cheerfully, as he took off his coat, “I may have the machine patched up a little, and we will take that little run out to Port Lafayette. I feel that the trip has been delayed too long already, and I shall get to work at once.”
“If you wish,” I said, “I will lend you Mr. Prawley to hold things while you work on them.”
“Prawley?” said Millington. “Prawley? That man of yours? No, thank you, John. That man Prawley is so fearful of automobiles that he trembles at the sight of a pair of goggles. He would die of fear if we forced him into this garage.”
I left Millington whistling over his work, and that afternoon I took my putter and went to the golf grounds alone, for I had spent half the night reading the golf book Mr. Rolfs had lent me, and I saw I had not gone at the game in the right way. I knew now that I should have held my club with my right hand more to the right—or to the left—and my right foot nearer the ball—or not so near it—and with the head of my club heeled up more—or not so much. The directions given by the book were very explicit. They said a player must invariably lay his thumb along the shaft of the club, unless he wrapped it around the shaft, or let it stick up like a sore toe, or cut it off and got along without it, or did something else with it. The book seemed to imply that the proper way for a beginner to learn golf was to lock himself in a dark closet and indulge in silent meditation until he became an expert player, but the closets in my house were so narrow and shallow I felt I could not meditate broadly in them. So I went to the Country Club.
I met young Weldorf there, and as soon as he saw me he immediately proposed a round. He said he had wanted to play a round with me ever since he had heard of my clubs. He said he hoped I would not mind his dog being along, for the dog took a lively interest in the game of golf.
So I told Weldorf I loved dogs and that I thought a dog or two scattered around the links added greatly to the picturesqueness of the game. Weldorf's dog was a rather thin dog, of the white terrier kind, with black spots, and Weldorf explained that the reason there were bare, flesh-coloured spots on the dog was because he was just recovering from an attack of mange.
Weldorf drove first, and a beautiful drive it was, and with a gay bark the dog darted after the ball, but Weldorf spoke to him sternly, and he stopped short, although he still gazed after the ball yearningly. Then I drove. I exerted the whole of my enormous strength in that drive, and I think I surprised Weldorf. I know I surprised the dog. If I had been that dog, I, too, would have been surprised. There stood the dog, looking at Weldorf's ball, wagging his tail and thinking of nothing, and here came my ball with terrific speed. Suddenly the ball hit the dog on the hip with a splashy sort of smack, and immediately the dog was impelled forward and upward, giving voice, as we dog-fanciers say. He gave voice three times while in the air, and when he alighted he put his tail between his legs and dashed madly away.
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We were not able to retrieve the dog until we reached the third teeing ground, and then I apologized to him. He did not accept my apology. He looked upon my most friendly advances with unjust suspicion. He seemed to have no faith in my game, and kept well to the rear of me, but when Weldorf addressed him in a few well-chosen words he unlooped his tail and wagged it in a halfhearted sort of way. I decided to ignore the dog. I raised the hinged lid of the sandbox and took out a large handful of sand to form my tee, and letting the lid fall took a step forward.
Immediately the dog gave voice! Weldorf had to raise the lid of the sand-box before the dog was able to get his tail out, but as soon as he had reassumed full control of his tail he placed it firmly between his legs and dashed madly away. It is nonsense to have a golf dog with a long tail.
By the time we reached the sixth putting-green the dog had begun to get lonely, and assumed a cheerful demeanour. He returned to us with ingratiating poses, mainly sliding along the ground on his stomach as he approached, and I was glad to see him happy again, for I love dogs and I like to have them happy. He stood afar off, however, until he saw our balls on the putting-green. He knew that golfers do not “putt” as strenuously as they “drive.” Then he came nearer. I took the flag-pole from the hole and let it fall gracefully to the ground. Without an instant of hesitation the dog gave voice! It was a long flag-pole, made of a plump bamboo fish-rod, and when it fell it seemed to strike directly on the eighth dorsal vertebra of the dog, at a spot where he was not recovering very well from the mange.
Weldorf said he had no doubt the dog would find his way home, and we stood and listened until the voice the dog was giving died away in the far distance, and then we holed out. It is nonsense for a dog to have dorsal vertebrae.
When we reached the seventh hole I found that the grounds committee was already using my initiation fee, for the grass mowers were at work there, and a man with a rake immediately stepped up to me, and said in the most friendly manner that he would be willing to part with some golf balls for money, if I would say nothing about it to the Board of Governors. He had sixteen, nine of which I recognized as some of those I had lost the day before, and he very generously offered to let me have the lot at fifteen cents each. I purchased them eagerly, and the man who was driving the mower at once descended and offered me twelve more at the same price. Between there and the ninth hole numerous caddies appeared from behind trees and bunkers and offered me balls at ridiculously low prices, and I, quite naturally, took advantage of their offers.
When I reached home Isobel asked me how I was progressing with my game. “Well,” I said, “I return with forty-two more golf balls than I had when I went out.”
Instantly her face brightened. She congratulated me warmly and said she was sure Mrs. Rolfs and Mrs. Millington had overstated the evils of the game. She said she thought she could see an improvement in my health already. She advised me to keep at the game until my health was beyond compare.
I now know that the book Mr. Rolfs lent me is mere piffle and that, for a man who takes his golf in the right way, a broom or a hairpin is as good as any other tool. I enjoy the game immensely, and find it great sport. Often I come home with fifty golf balls, and my low record is eighteen—but that was a legal holiday and the grass mowers were on vacation. I have so many golf balls in the house already that Isobel talks of having an addition built over the kitchen for storage purposes. As my game has improved I have acquired such dexterity that I can buy balls from the caddies at the rate of four for twenty-five cents. If I practise regularly I believe I shall in time reach a point where I can buy balls for five cents each. By holes, my best score is thirty-eight balls, made at the eighth hole on July 6th, from the red-headed caddy and the fat mowing man. My low score is one ball, made August 16th, at the first hole. I never make a large score there, as it is near the club house and the caddies are afraid of the Board of Governors.
When golf is taken rightly it arouses the instincts of the chase in a man, and I now feel the same joy in running down a caddy and bargaining for found balls that others feel in hunting wild animals. Golf, taken thus, is a splendid game.
And I have found that if I use my putter only, and knock the ball but a few yards each stroke, there is no need of losing a ball from one end of the year to the other. But even then one must remember the cardinal rule of all golfers—“Keep the eye on the ball.”
IHAVE said that I left Millington happily working over his automobile when I went to the Country Club that afternoon. When I returned he was still working away, and so well had I wrecked his car that all his repairing seemed to have made not the slightest impression on it.
“John,” he said brightly, “you certainly did a good job. It will be months before I have this car in any shape at all, I am sure. It is going to take all my spare time, too. I mean to set my alarm clock for three, and get up at that time every morning.”
It is always a pleasure for me to see another man happy, and at half-past two the next morning I was waiting for Millington at his garage door. He came out of his house promptly at three, and joked merrily as he unlocked the garage door, but the moment he threw open the door his face fell. And well it might! The dished wheel had been trued, the crushed hood had been straightened and painted, a new cylinder had replaced the cracked one, and when Millington tried the engine it ran without a sound except that of a perfectly working piece of well-adjusted machinery. Millington got out of the car and stood staring at the motor, and suddenly, with a low cry of anguish, he fell over backward as stiff as a log. Mrs. Millington and I managed to carry him to bed, and then I returned to the garage. I was not going to desert Millington in his adversity.
After the doctor had visited the house, Mrs. Millington came out and told me that her husband was still in a comatose state, due to brain-shock, but that he kept repeating “Sell it! Sell it!” over and over, and she was sure he must mean the car. She said that while she would hate to part with the car, and give up all the pleasure of starting for Port Lafayette, she feared for her husband's reason if he continued to receive such shocks, and she was willing to sacrifice the car at a very low price, if I insisted. She said I had not, like Millington, become habituated to hearing a knocking in the engine, so' the lack of it would not bother me, and that owning a car that repaired itself over night was what most automobile owners would call a golden opportunity.
I suppose if I had come home and said to Isobel: “My dear, I have bought an Asiatic hyena,” she would have been less shocked and surprised than she was when I entered the house and said: “Well, my dear, I have bought an automobile.”
Isobel is of a rather nervous disposition, and driving behind Bob, our horse, had tended to eliminate any latent speed mania she may have ever had, for Bob is not a rapid horse. Of course, Isobel drove the horse at a trot occasionally, but that was when she wanted to go slower than a walk, for Bob was what may be called an upright trotter—one of those horses that trot like a grasshopper: the harder they trot the higher they rise in the air, and the less ground they cover. When Bob was in fine fettle, as we horsemen say, he could trot for hours with a perpendicular motion, like a sewing machine needle, and remain in one identical spot the whole time. He could trot tied to a post. Sometimes when he was feeling his oats he could trot backward.
I suppose that when I mentioned automobile Isobel had a vision of a bright-red car about twenty-five feet long, with a tonnage like an ocean steamer, and a speed of one hundred and ten miles an hour—one of the machines that flash by with a wail of agony and kill a couple of men just around the next corner. But Millington's automobile was not that kind. It was a tried and tested affair. It had been in a Christian family for five years, and was well broken. Nor was it a long automobile; it was one of the shortest automobiles I have ever seen; indeed, I do not think I ever saw such a short automobile. “Short and high” seemed to have been the maker's motto, and he had lived up to it. He couldn't have made the automobile any shorter without having cogs on the tires, so they could overlap. If the automobile had been much shorter the rear wheels would have been in front of the fore wheels. But what it lacked in length it made up in altitude. It averaged pretty well, multiplying the height by the length. It was the type known in the profession as the “camel type.” When in action it had a motion somewhat like a camel, too, but more like a small boat on a wintry, wind-tossed sea. But, ah! the engine! There was a noble heart in that weak body! When the engine was in average knocking condition, one knew when it started. In two minutes after the engine started the driver was on the ground; if he did not become dizzy, sitting at such a height, and fall off, the engine shook him off.
But, if Isobel did not take kindly to the idea of owning Millington's automobile, Rolfs seemed glad I was going to buy it.
“You won't be everlastingly asking me to take a little run up to Port Lafayette,” he said. “For years before you moved out here Millington bothered the life out of me, and I cannot bear riding in automobiles. I hate them worse than that hired man of yours does. How does he like the idea?”
I told him, rather haughtily, that I did not usually consult Mr. Prawley when I bought automobiles. Then Rolfs said he thought, usually, it was just as well for an ignorant man to consult some one, but that he knew Millington's automobile was a good one. He said he knew the man that had owned the machine ten or twelve years before Millington bought it. He said that every one knew that machines of that make that were made in 1895 were extremely durable. He said he remembered about this one particularly, because it was the period when milk shakes were the popular drink, and his friend used to make his own. He said his friend would put the ingredients in a bottle, and tie the bottle to the automobile seat, and then start the engine for a minute or two, and the milk would be completely shaken. So would his friend.
Rolfs asked me to let him know when I brought the automobile over from Millington's. I had no difficulty in doing so. When I ran that automobile the only difficulty was in concealing the fact that it was arriving anywhere and in getting it to arrive. Often it preferred not to arrive at all, but when it did arrive, it gave every one notice. Isobel never had to wonder whether I was arriving in my machine, or whether it was some visitor in another machine. Under my regime my machine had a sweet, purring sound like a road-roller loaded with scrap iron crossing a cobblestone bridge. When the engine was going and the car was not, it sounded like giant fire-crackers exploding under a dish pan.
The very day I purchased the car and brought it into my yard Mr. Prawley came to me and told me he had a very important communication to make. He said his poor old mother was sick, and he would like a month's vacation. He added that he imagined the automobile would last about twenty-nine days. As he said this his lean, villainous face wore a look of fear, and when I told him he could have the vacation, he departed, walking backward, keeping one eye on the automobile all the while.
But the automobile did not behave in the bewitched manner for me that it had for Millington. It did not repair itself over night at all. If anything it deteriorated.
Oddly enough, now that the automobile was quite tame, Isobel, who usually has perfect confidence in me, declined to ride in it. But frequently we took rides together, driving side by side, she in her buggy behind Bob, and I in my automobile, and, occasionally, when the road was rough and the engine working well, I would drop in on her unexpectedly. But not always. Sometimes I fell off on the other side.
I found these little trips very pleasant and exceedingly good for a torpid liver—if I had had one—and I enjoyed having Isobel with me, especially when we came to bits of sandy road where the rear wheels of my automobile would revolve uselessly, as if for the mere pleasure of revolving.
Then I would unhitch Bob from the buggy and hitch him to the automobile, and he would tow me over the sandy stretch, aided by the engine. It was a pretty picture to see this helpfulness, one to the other, especially when my engine was palpitating in its wild, vibratory manner, and Bob was trotting at full speed, while I fell out of the automobile, first on one side and then on the other.
Isobel enjoyed these little moments exceedingly and often I had to go back to her, after I had passed the sandy spot, and pat her on the back until she could get her breath again. She had to admit that she had never imagined she could get so much pleasure out of an automobile. But it was that kind of an automobile—any one could get more pleasure out of it than in it.
I myself found that after the first novelty wore off automobiling became a bore. As a method of securing pleasure the cost per gallon to each unit of joy was too high, in that machine. Riding in my machine was not what is called “joy riding.” It was more like a malady.
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Of course we never attempted a long tour, like that to Port Lafayette, which is eleven miles from Westcote, and it was about the time my tire troubles began that I thought of domesticating my automobile. I remember with what pride I discovered my first puncture. Every automobile owner of my acquaintance had tire troubles, and I had never had any, and I felt slighted. Sometimes I felt tempted to take an awl and puncture a tire myself, so I, too, could talk about my tire troubles, but I had a feeling that that would be unprofessional. I had never heard of any real sporty automobilist punching holes in his tires with awls; in fact they seemed to consider there was no particular pleasure in punctured tires. That was the way they talked—as if a puncture was a misfortune—but I knew better. I could hear the undercurrent of pride in their voices as they announced: “Well, I had three punctures and two blow-outs yesterday. I was running along slowly, about fifty-five miles an hour, between Oyster Bay and Huntington, when—” And then the next man would pipe up and say: “Yes? Well, I beat that. I was speeding a little—not much, but about sixty miles an hour—on the Jericho Turnpike last night, and all four tires—” And through it all I had to sit silent. I longed to be able to say: “I was speeding along yesterday at about half a mile an hour, the machine going better than usual, when suddenly I jumped out and stuck my penknife into the forward, left-hand tire—” I had never had a puncture. I was not in their class.
But my turn came. I was speeding a little—about one city block every five minutes—on Thirteenth Street, when my sparker stopped sparking. When your engine misses fire there are six hundred and forty-two things that may be the matter, and after you have tested the six hundred and forty-two, it may be an entirely new six hundred and forty-third trouble. I have known a man to try the full six hundred and forty-two remedies unavailingly, and then sigh and wipe his goggles, and the engine began working beautifully. And it was only by chance—pure chance—that he happened to wipe his goggles. Probably he had not wiped them for years. But after that the first thing he did when his engine did not fire was to wipe them. And never, never again did it have the least effect on the engine. That is one of the peculiar things about an automobile. And there are nine hundred and ninety-nine other peculiar things, each of which is more peculiar than all the rest.
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I had just taken my automobile apart to discover why the engine did not work, and the various pieces of its anatomy were scattered up and down the street for a block or more, and I was hunting up another piece to take out, when I noticed that one of my tires was flat. I had a puncture! I suppose I would have thrilled with joy at any other time, but just after a man has dissected his automobile is no time for him to thrill. He has other things to amuse him. I have even known a man who had just discovered that his last battery had gone dead to swear a little when he discovered that two tires had also gone flat.
It was when I was pumping up that new inner tube that I decided to domesticate my automobile. It seemed to be a shame to take such a delicate piece of machinery out on the rough, unfeeling road, and I remembered that Rolfs had told me of a Philadelphia friend of his who had half domesticated his automobile. Rolfs said that once, when he was foolish, he had ridden half an hour, out to his friend's farm, and there the automobile was jacked up and a belt attached to one of the rear wheels, and in less than five minutes the car was doing duty as a piece of farm machinery, running a feed cutter. Rolfs said it was great. He said it was the only time he ever felt satisfied that an automobile was getting what it deserved. He said that all the men had to do was to keep the fodder-cutter fed with fodder, and that it kept two farm hands busy. He said I ought to get some fodder and cut it that way and stop being an obstruction in the public highways. He suggested that I get some wood and saw wood with the automobile, or get some apples and make cider. He suggested a thousand things I could do with the automobile, and not one of them was riding in it.
I had tried riding in it myself, and after owning it a week or two I decided it was just the kind of automobile that was meant to do general household work. So I domesticated it.
MARY was one of the most faithful servants a family ever had. Her faithfulness deserves this monument. She was a Pole and she could not pronounce her own name. She tried to pronounce it the first day she came to us, but along toward the sixth or seventh syllable she became confused and had to give it up. She said it was Schneider in English. Perhaps the reason she remained with us so long was because she had brought her Polish name with her, and it was too much trouble to move it from place to place. When she once got in a place, she liked to stay there. But “Schneider” was about the only English word she knew, and this made it a little difficult to explain to her that I had domesticated the automobile and would allow her to use it on wash day. I had to make a picture of it, and even then she seemed rather doubtful about it.
As a matter of fact it was all very simple, but Mary Schneider was stupid. We already had the washing machine, and we had the automobile, and it was only necessary to connect the rear wheel of the automobile with the drive wheel of the washing machine by means of a belt, jack up the rear axle of the automobile, and start the engine. I hoped in time to go further than this and hitch up the coffee mill, the carpet-sweeper, the ice-cream freezer, and all our other household machinery, and then Mary Schneider would have a very easy time of it. She could have sat in the automobile with her hands on the speed levers and the work would have done itself. But Mary would not sit in the automobile. She tried to explain that she had seen me sit in it and that the Schneiders, as a family, had very brittle bones and could not afford to fall out of automobiles of such height, but I could not understand what she was saying. I only understood that she said she would give notice immediately if she had to sit in that automobile while the palpitator was jiggering.
I had a feeling that all this was mere diffidence on her part, and that when she once saw how easy it all was she would be delighted with it. So I jacked up the rear axle of the car in my backyard, and attached the clothesline as a belt to the rear wheel and to the drive wheel of the washing machine. I remained at home one Monday morning especially to do this, and Isobel thought it was very kind of me. She said she was sure Mary could do it, and would be glad to, after she had once seen how it was done.
Mary put the soap in the washing machine, and the hot water, and the clothes, and I started the automobile engine. It was all I had hoped. Never, never had I seen clothes washed so rapidly. Luckily I had thought to nail the legs of the washing machine to the floor of the back porch. This steadied the washing machine and kept it from jumping more than it did. Of course, some vibration was conveyed along the rope belt from the automobile, and Mary had to hasten to and fro bringing more hot water to refill the washing machine. It was like a storm at sea, or a geyser, or a large hot fountain. When we had the automobile going at full speed the water hardly entered the washing machine before it dashed madly out again.
Isobel had to help by putting more clothes in the washing machine. It used up clothes as rapidly as Rolf's friend's fodder-cutter used up fodder, but I think it cut the clothes into smaller pieces. We discovered this when we hunted up the clothes later. We did not notice it at the time. All was excitement.
It was a proud moment for me. The engine was running as well as it ever did, the dasher of the washing machine was dashing to and fro with hot water, and Mrs. Rolfs and Mrs. Millington were cheering us on. I began to believe we would break all records for clothes washing if Mary and Isobel could only keep water and clothes in the washing machine. Just then I fell out of the automobile.
Possibly the sudden removal of my weight had an effect. It may have been that my head in striking one of the rear wheels moved the axle. Of this I can never be sure. The rear axle unjacked itself, and as the rear wheels touched the ground the automobile darted away. I was just able to touch the washing machine as it hurried by, but it did not wait for me to secure a firm hold, and it went on its way. But Mary was faithful to the last. She—ignorant though she was—knew that the weekly wash should not dash off in this manner. She—although but a Pole, knew her duty and did it. Mary hung onto the washing machine. Whither the wash went she was going. And so she did. Rapidly, too.
The rear porch was not badly damaged. Only those boards to which the washing machine had been nailed went with it, but where the automobile went through the back fence we had to make extensive repairs. But it was all for the best. If the automobile had not made a hole in the fence Mary could not have gone through. Of course, she could have gone around by the gate, but she would have lost time, and she was not losing any time. Neither was the washing machine. The automobile did not gain an inch on it, and sometimes when the washing machine made a good jump it overtook the automobile. So did Mary.
I saw then that I had not thoroughly domesticated the automobile. As we stood and watched the automobile and the washing machine and Mary dashing rapidly away in the distance, we felt that the automobile was still a little too wild for household use, but I fully believed the automobile would be tame enough before it reached home again. A young, strong automobile may be able to take cross country runs without ill effects, but an elderly automobile, like the one I bought of Millington, cannot dash across country towing a washing machine and a Polish servant, whose name is Schneider in English, without danger to its constitution. I do not blame the washing machine—it could not let go, it was belted on—but if Mary had had presence of mind she would have released her grasp when she found the strain was too much for the automobile. But it is strange how differently the minds of male and female run. As I watched the automobile disappear over the edge of the hill I said:
“Isobel, I guess that ends that automobile,” But Isobel said:
“John, I am afraid we have lost Mary.” And yet that automobile and that Pole were the last two in the world I should ever have suspected of running away with each other. She came back later in the day, but she did not say much. She packed her trunk and took her wages, and remarked a remark that sounded like the English word Schneider translated into Polish. The washing machine did not return.
When Millington came out to the fence that evening I told him that I was done with automobiling, and that the automobile was probably mashed to flinders. He had been looking bad, but he brightened at the words.
“John,” he said, “if that automobile is wrecked as badly as it should be after running wild with a tail of washing machines and Schneiders-in-English, I'll buy it back. I'll give—I'll give you five dollars for it.”
He must have seen the eagerness in my eyes, for he remarked quickly:
“I'll give you two dollars and forty-five cents for it!”
“I'll take it!” I said instantly.
“It is mine!” said Millington, and he handed over the money.
As soon as it was in my pocket I heard a rustling in the currant bushes at my left, and Mr. Prawley raised his head above them.
“Mother's well again,” he said. “I've come back!”
MILLINGTON and I hunted up the automobile the next day, and it was in worse condition than I had imagined. The only way the car could be got back to his garage was on a truck, but we got it there, and unloaded it, and Millington hunted up all his tools and got them ready to use the next day. It was late by that time, and we locked the garage and went to bed.
All night I worried over having taken two dollars and forty-five cents from Millington for that collection of old metal that had been a motor-car, and as early as possible the next morning I took the money and went over to Millington's. I found him just going out to the garage, and he positively refused to take back the money. He said the car was in just the condition he wanted it, and that if I hadn't knocked the witchery out of it no one could. He said he hoped—and just then he opened the garage door.
There stood the automobile, on the very spot where we had left it, but there was not a scratch on it. Except that it was an ancient model, it might have been a brand new car. Even the brasswork had been polished, and at the first glance the tires seemed new, but we found they had only been carefully repaired and painted drab.
Millington stood looking at the automobile a few minutes and then laughed. He turned to me with a strangely contorted face and said: “Uncle Tom, you are invited to take a ride with Cleopatra in my air-ship to-night at midnight.”
Millington said this in a very calm voice, but he immediately followed it by asking me to have a piece of strawberry pie, and instead of pie he offered me the can of gear grease. I managed to coax him into the house, and when the doctor arrived he advised absolute rest. He said Millington's brain was not yet permanently affected, but that another such shock would be too much for him. He said that for the present we must humour him, and try to make him believe that the automobile was damaged beyond recovery. It seemed to have a soothing effect, and to aid his recovery I got into the car, ran it into the street, aimed it at a stone wall opposite Millington's window, threw on the high speed, and jumped to one side. One minute later the machine was afire, and half an hour later little was left of it but the metal parts, and they were badly warped.
Mr. Prawley came out when he saw the fire, and a look of the most fiendish joy glittered in his eyes. Never have I seen a man show such pleasure over the destruction of an automobile. His hatred of automobiles seemed to be endless and bottomless.
When I told Millington that his automobile was now in about as bad condition as man could put it into, he sat up in bed, and the light of sanity came into his eyes. He walked to the window and looked out at the car, and became his old cheerful self again. He said that there was no doubt now that the devils in the car had been exorcised, and that with a few weeks work he could get it back into such shape that the engine would be working properly, and we would then, he said take that little run up to Port Lafayette. He then took a little nourishment, and by night he was quite himself again. When he had had his dinner I went home and had mine, and went to bed at once, for I knew Millington would be at work soon after sun-up.
I had hardly got into bed, however, when I began to fear that Millington's eagerness would get the best of him, and at ten o'clock I went over to his house. I found him in bed and awake and cheerful, but he said he did not mean to get up. He said it was against his policy to get up the day before in order to be up the next day, so I sat by his bed and read chapters from a dear little work of fiction entitled “Easy Remedies for Ignition Troubles,” until the clock struck twelve, and then Millington hopped out of bed and threw on his clothes.
The moment we stepped from the back door the same thing struck us both with surprise. There was a light in the garage!
My first thought was that some rascal was in the garage trying to ruin Millington's automobile, but a second thought assured me this was impossible. Ruin could be carried no farther than I had carried it. Bidding Millington be silent, I crept cautiously toward the garage, with Millington at my heels, and without a sound we peered in at the window. The sight was one that would have shaken the strongest man.
Bending over the motor, with his face made unearthly by the artificial light that fell upon it obliquely, casting deep shadows, was that villain, Mr. Prawley! I have never seen anything so devilish as that wretch as he worked with inhuman agility and haste. His long, claw-like fingers danced from one part of the machine to another fiendishly, and a hideous grin distorted his features. He was humming some weird tune, and I noted that he was ambidextrous, for he was varnishing the hood with one hand while with the other he was putting in a new spark plug. A tremor of horror passed over Millington and over me at the same moment. A few whispered words, a few stealthy steps, and we burst in and seized Mr. Prawley by the arms. In a moment we had him on the floor of the garage, bound hand and foot.
Millington was for wreaking immediate vengeance on him, but I stood firmly for a more lawful course, and the next day we handed him over to the authorities, and his whole miserable story came out. His name was not Mr. Prawley at all. Neither was it Alonzo Duggs, which was the name he he had given us when Isobel and I hired him. His name was William Alexander Vandergribbin. He came of good family, but mania for speeding automobiles had brought him to ruin, and the third time he was arrested for over-speeding a sentence of thirty years in the penitentiary had been pronounced by the judge. The judge, however, had suspended the sentence provided that William Alexander Vandergribbin never again touched an automobile.
For several years Vandergribbin fought down his appetite. Then he fell. He changed his name to Flossy Zozo, and secured a job as the death-defying loop-the-gappist with the big show. For a time the speeding down the runway in the fake automobile, with the somersault at the bottom of the run, appeased his cravings, but the rules of the show prohibited him from tinkering with the fake automobile, which was strictly in charge of the property man, and Vandergribbin left the show, changed his name to Alonzo Duggs, and seeking our quiet town, chose work in the house nearest the man owning the oldest automobile. For weeks he had watched his opportunity—you know the rest. He is now in Sing Sing.
I am sorry to end this story so abruptly, but Millington has just come over to ask if I would not like to take a little run out to Port Lafayette. I have always wanted to go to Port Lafayette, which is about eleven miles from here; so, if you will excuse me, I will go and button Isobel's matinee gown, and we will be off.