After practice I become more intellectual with that machinery. With
kindly assistance from Hon. Mrs I could tease him to start from his
barn and run dangerously around block amid loudy curses from gasolene.
Pride filled me up. Folks often feels thusly before cyclones.
That p. m. Hon. Mrs arrive to kitchen where I was manufacturing pie
with mushroom expression peculiar to cooks.
“Togo,” she denounce, “you sippose you can now start Hon. Ottomobile by
your lonesome self?”
“No starter could ever be more scientific than me,” I negotiate,
holding pie-crust on my wrists.
“Glad to hear!” she congratulate. “Hon. Mr. Hopp return to-night by
6.6½ train. Feed 2 gals gasolene to Hon. Ottomobile and deliver Hon.
Husband to me as soonly as possible.”
This were supreme time for prides. Bellboys, admirals and postmasters
seldom feel more happy in time of great victory.
I put on respectaful gloves & greasy overcoat to resemble chauffer. I
smudge some engine-smoke across nose, so I should look more mechanical.
Then I go to gas-stable and quell Hon. Ottomobile with my hero
expression. He seem quite doggish.
Skilful cranks by me. Loud roary from his stomach. Like Hon. Julius
Cæsar crossing the Delaware I lep to seat & make my heels, thumbs &
elbows go in all directions. O banzai! That sweet, tame ottomobile
jump forwards like a canary. Defly I turn wheel and make him sidle up
one street & down next. Citizens was seen dodging respectfully side by
side to let me pass. One gentleman raise Bull Moose voice and mention
it when I scratch his knuckles slightly. More faster and yet more so I
sped onwards. I seem to be walking on golden wings. Poetry circulated
in my chest. Thusly do gasolene make heroes of us all.
Pretty soonly I arrive up to R R station where I observe Hon. Hopp
standing there in all the importance of his fat. Him & several
conductors looked very gast when they observe great skill with which I
knocked hitching-post from befront of saloon and still came on.
All wheels was waltzing nicely as I turn Hon. Car close to platform,
intending for to stop and load on Hon. Boss.
But alast! when I got there I could not stay. Despite of how I wiggled
handles, punched buttons, reversed myself with heels and commanded
with voice, that inflamed chariot were deaf to pity and determined to
continue onward. Hon. Mr make motions for me to arrest myself, but
all I could do was to set in seat while Hon. Car gollup rudely around
block. With Samurai calmness I continue to turn wheel, hoping thusly to
arrive back to station. And so I did. Pretty soonly I come up to R R
platform again. Despite my angry jerks by handle, I could observe how
peevly Hon. Hopp look at me.
“Togo,” he holla, “come here!”
“I do so!” I response, so I make skilled wobble of wheel and drove
Hon. Ottomobile up on platform, where he go for Hon. Boss so straight
that this fatty gentleman start off with dodge run peculiar to ducks
avoiding elephants. But Hon. Ottomobile was more quicker in the legs,
so he pounce on Hon. Mr with rude affection peculiar to New Foundland
dogs. Groans by him. Toots by otto. Then onwards I proceeded, still
attempting to strangle that horsepower which would not quit.
Mr. Editor, you could not imagine such stubborn bullishness could be in
anything not human. The more I twisted that wagon, the faster he go.
Ditches, back fences and trees were splintered by his determination. At
lastly, because I knew it would be convenient for me to die near the
place where I was employed, I turned his nose toward home of Hon. Mrs
Hopp.
We got there by very cross lots. Mrs. Hopp were standing by front gate
when I whoofed by.
“Togo,” she yall as I pass, “Did you get my husband?”
“Yes, thanks--I got him plenty,” were smart reply I make.
Pretty soonly, by intense wheeling, I come back around block to where
that sweet-hearted lady was.
“Put that car back in its stable!” she shreech like eagles.
“I obey!” was reply for me. So with all the Japanese courage I could
demand from my ancestors, I turn Hon. Car through front fence, over
vegetable garden, across clothes line. When I arrive to garage I put
Hon. Car in very neatly, but Hon. Garage refuse to remain standing
where he was, but followed in several fractions. 26 feet further on,
Hon. Ottomobile, cursing like enraged kangaroos, lep over that cyclone
and fall dead in heap of splinters. Nothing alive remained except a few
wheels, pandemonium and me.
As soonly as my intellectual mind got back in place, I sat up,
determined to see Hon. Mrs about resigning from that dangerous
housework. But she saw me previously.
“Togo!” she glub, “how dares you make this rumpage when I spend one
whole week teaching you how to start ottomobiles?”
“If you had spent another week teaching me how to stop him, I should be
less scattered,” were bright reply from me.
So I remove my derby from around my neck & limp offwards feeling like
tonsilitis.
Hoping you are the same
Yours truly,
_Hashimura Togo_.