“That are way to start ottomobile,” holla Mrs Seth Hopp while avoiding
death on road & wheeling corners with aviator expression.
“It are easy like astronomy,” I rejoint, holding on to my hair to keep
him from blowing off. And so forth.
At R. R. station we stop up and load on Hon. Mr. Hopp, one large,
portable man of important fat.
“Togo are learning to chaff this car so he can drag you back & forth,”
decry Hon. Mrs.
“He do not look very powerful,” contuse him cattishly.
How could he realise?
Mr. Editor, driving ottomobiles are a warlike work unsuited to Gen.
Housekeeping. How can I do hired girl tasks, yet expect myself to
command those harsh cranks and greasy energy what makes gasolene go? To
make a chauffeur out of a cook are like making bullets out of buscuits.
It could be done, but can it?
Yet this Mrs. Seth Hopp, Hon. Lady of extreme brain, was determined
I should be a chum to her car, although I were sure he did not like
my looks. Each morning for ½-hour time she give me lesson in how
to start ottomobiles. I learn this with all the fido qualities of my
Japanese religion. Yet something told me different.
“This horsepower are full of mules,” I tell her one day while I set
there pulling 13 handles expecting Hon. Car to go when he would not.
“Brace uply!” she say for courage. “Any child can start an ottomobile.”
“Why you not employ a child, then?” I require.