A RIDE IN THE RAIN
Tears, almost hysterics, from the woman who for seven years had been the
quiet, cheerful little wife, humming to herself while she did the
housework--it was more than startling, it was terrifying.
Ford realized then, probably for the first time, how much the making of
the automobile had cost her.
He quieted her as well as he could, and promised that he would take her
back to Greenfield. He would give up his job at the Edison plant and
move to the farm to live, since she cared so much about it, he said. His
work on the machine could wait.
He took her into the house and made her a cup of hot tea. When she was
sitting comfortably warming her feet at the heating stove and sipping
the tea, he said he would just run out and fasten the shed door for the
night.
The machine was almost finished. A few more screws, a tightening of the
leather belt, the placing of the steering lever, and it would be
complete. He had spent four years of hard work, and harder thought, on
its building--delayed first by his poverty, then by the building of the
house, and always held back for twelve hours out of every day by his
work at the Edison plant. Now he would have to put it aside again, to
spend precious days and weeks disposing of his equity in the house,
moving, settling in Greenfield, struggling with new hired men, beginning
again the grind of managing a farm.
It was only another delay, he said doggedly to himself; he would make
the machine run yet. In the meantime he could not resist taking up his
tools and working on it, just a minute or so.
The engine was in place, the gears adjusted. He tightened the leather
belt and tested the pulley again. Then he set the rear axle on blocks of
wood, lifting the wheels from the ground and started the engine. The
cough of the cylinder quickened into a staccato bark, the flywheel
blurred with speed. Then Ford tightened the pulley, the broad leather
belt took hold. The rear wheels spun.
She was running!
It remained only to test the machine in actual going on the ground. Ford
went to work on the steering gear. He had thought it all out before, he
had made all the parts. Now he must put them together, fit them into
place and test them.
He forgot about his wife, waiting in the house; he did not notice that
the fire in the stove was getting low and the hour was growing late. He
bent every thought and energy to placing the steering gear.
At midnight he was still working. At 1 o'clock he had the front wheels
blocked up and was testing the steering lever. It needed some changes.
At 2 o'clock they were finished. He started the engine again and it
missed fire. Something was wrong with the spark.
At 3 o'clock, grimy, hollow-cheeked, absorbed, he was hard at work when
he felt a hand on his arm and heard his wife say, "Henry!"
"My dear, what's the matter? I'm coming in right away. Why, you're all
wet!" he exclaimed, seeing her dripping shawl.
"It's raining hard. Didn't you know it?" she said.
"You shouldn't have come out; I thought you were going right to bed," he
answered.
"Well, I couldn't sleep very well. I got to thinking--Henry, we mustn't
go back to the farm. It was just a notion of mine. I guess I was tired,
or something. I've changed my mind. We'd better stay right here till you
get the machine finished."
He laughed.
"Well, little woman, I guess that won't be so very long. It's finished
right now," he said. "You wait a minute and you'll see me running it."
She stood and watched, more excited than he, while he started the engine
again, nailed a couple of old boards together for a seat and opened wide
the shed doors. The rain was falling in torrents and underfoot the light
snow had turned to thin slush on the frozen ground. It was very dark.
He pushed the machine into the yard and hung a lantern over the
dashboard for a headlight. Inside the shed Mrs. Ford, in a voice shaking
with excitement, begged him to wait until morning, but he did not
listen. The engine and steering gear were protected from the rain and no
discomfort could have equaled for him the disappointment of another
delay.
The time had come when he could prove his theories. He would not waste
one minute of it.
The engine was already running. He stepped into the car, sat down, and
slowly, carefully, tightened the pulley.
Then, in the first Ford automobile, he rode away from the old shed.
When he felt the machine moving under him he tightened his grasp on the
steering lever. Suddenly the light of the lantern showed him a dozen
things he had never noticed in the yard before. The clothes-pole loomed
menacingly before him, a pile of flower pots seemed to grow out of all
proportion to its ordinary size.
The machine wobbled unsteadily, while he desperately struggled to drive
it in a straight line. He turned it from the flower pots, jerked it back
in time to avoid running into the fence, and headed straight for the
clothes-pole. It seemed to jump at him.
At the last minute he thought of the pulley. He loosened the leather
belt, the engine spun wildly, the car stopped. Henry Ford got out,
breathing hard, and pushed the machine around the clothes-pole.
"You see, I not only had to make the machine, but I had to get into it
and learn how to steer it while it was running," he says. It occurred to
him that he would like a good wide space for the job.
After he had rescued the machine from the clothes-pole he turned it
toward the street. Chug-chugging away, he passed the house, drove over
the gravel sidewalk, and turned down Edison avenue. The scattered houses
were dark and silent; every one was asleep.
The little machine, rattling and coughing, proceeded through the thin
slush in jerks and jumps, doing valiantly with its one cylinder. Perched
on the rough board seat, Henry Ford battled with the steering lever,
while on the sidewalk Mrs. Ford, wrapped in her shawl, anxiously kept
pace with them. It was not difficult to do, for the car was not breaking
any future speed limits.
At the end of the first block Ford turned the car successfully, and rode
down the side street, zig-zagging widely from side to side in his effort
to drive straight ahead. Fortunately, Detroit's streets are wide.
When he had passed the second block he began to wonder how to turn and
drive back. At the end of the third block he solved the difficulty. He
stopped the car, jumped out, lifted it around, and headed it for home.
By this time the engine was missing again, but it continued gallantly to
jerk and push the light car forward until Ford had reached his own yard.
Then he stopped it, pushed the machine into the shed, and turned to Mrs.
Ford.
"Well, it runs all right. Guess I'll have some breakfast and go to bed,"
he said, and Mrs. Ford hurried in to make coffee.
"How did I feel? Why, I felt tired," he explains now. "I went to bed and
slept all next day. I knew my real work with the car had just begun. I
had to get capital somehow, start a factory, get people
interested--everything. Besides, I saw a chance for a lot of
improvements in that car."