ADVENTURES WITH A FLIVVER

Townsend’s flivver, as he said himself, was slow but unsure and they were three hours reaching Orange Lake. Here, at a pleasant summer boarding house, Mr. and Mrs. Ripley alighted. It was funny to see with what an air of sober complacency Townsend drove up the winding private roadway and saying, “whoa,” stopped in front of a spacious veranda filled with summer boarders.

“Make it talk for them,” whispered Pee-wee.

“I’ll make it say, ‘hurray,’” said Townsend. He leaned far out of the car, rocking it somewhat, and it undoubtedly did utter an uncanny response which sounded for all the world like that joyous call.

“Make it sit up and beg, can’t you?” asked a man in a hammock.

“I’ve got an inspiration,” whispered Pee-wee; “let’s make it talk and take up collections wherever we go. Will you? We can get a lot of money that way. I’ll pass around my hat now, shall I, and then we’ll make it say ‘good-by.’”

“We don’t want any money,” said Townsend; “you’ll spoil all the fun. It talks for love, like you. It doesn’t talk for money. I wonder if I could borrow a hatchet while I’m here?” he asked aloud.

“You going to chop down your little Ford?” the genial occupant of the hammock inquired.

It seemed that a hatchet was the only implement which would reach a certain bolt and act as a screw-driver.

“Maybe it won’t talk any more if you do that,” Pee-wee warned.

“Oh, yes, it’ll sing for a while now,” said Townsend. And so it did, a weird oriental tune, for eight or ten miles till they stopped to get gasoline. This was at a little supply station in a shack and the proprietor of the establishment could not be found. After wandering about, and whistling and calling, Townsend decided to go on to the next place.

“Have we got enough gas?” Pee-wee asked concernedly.

“I don’t know where the next place is,” Townsend said. “What do you mean by enough?”

As Pee-wee never had enough of anything himself he was not able, when put to it, to say just what was meant by that word.

“I don’t intend to take the seat up to find out,” said Townsend, “because there isn’t any plug in the tank and every time I move the seat straws from inside of it get into the gas supply and come out through the carburetor. I’ve lost a lot of straw that way.”

By a series of gymnastic contortions, Townsend rocked the car and a faint, distant splashing was heard below them. “We’ve got a couple of gallons or so, I guess. Do you want to get out and pick up the rear license plate?”

“How do you know it fell off?”

“It always falls off when I do that,” said Townsend.

They were in a pleasant country now, above Newburgh. Here the road runs between the Hudson and the Wallkill Rivers. The car jogged faithfully along, keeping up a sort of clanking lullaby except when it went over bad places when it raised its voice into a medley of squeaks and rattles like a traveling jazz band. Nothing seemed to surprise Townsend. He knew all the noises and the mysterious depths whence they emanated.

They passed several rural garages, but at each one Townsend rocked the car and received a faint, splashing reassurance from below the seat that the gas was holding out. “We’ll get some at the next place,” he would say.

So they traveled without mishap or adventure until dusk. Slowly the wooded hills changed color, patches of crimson lingered on the summits and faded and died away, leaving the heights in the solemn hue of the deepening twilight. And then the gathering darkness. It seemed as if the sturdy, clamorous, little flivver were all alone in the world, rattling merrily on as the mantle of night fell.

The road wound like a ribbon through the dim country where miles and miles of vineyards border the way. High in the air a solitary bird soared through the darkening sky, imparting a suggestion of wildness and loneliness to the scene.

Lights appeared in the few habitations which they passed. The voices of frogs could be heard in ponds and brooks, sending up their outlandish greetings to the night.

Somewhere in the vast stillness an owl was hooting. It was the wistful hour of homesickness, if one is given to that, for in those solemn, changing hours nature seems to be drawing her cloak about her and withdrawing from human company. The merry little Ford rattled along, up hill and down dale and around bends, and was pretty good company. Say what you will, a Ford is a pretty good sport.