LOS ANGELES TO SAN FRANCISCO
In full, the real name of Los Angeles is "La Puebla de Nuestra Señora
la Reina de los Angeles"--"The City of our Lady the Queen of the
Angels." Founded by Spanish settlers about 1780, it is built upon the
plains that roll from the foothills of the Sierra Madre down to the
sea. It represents the very last word in the civilization of the Far
West.
Los Angeles is a city of which to be proud. It is a hustling
metropolis, but not too hustling. Its streets are wide and well-laid,
its buildings clean, and its residences are just too wonderful for any
words of mine. It is moreover the "movie centre" _par excellence_ of
the world. "Duggie" and "Mary" and "Charlie" are not merely familiar
characters on the screen. They are your neighbours. You see them pass
in the streets and go shopping with them in the stores, like ordinary
human beings. Undoubtedly the development of Los Angeles in recent
years is due largely to this industry. So also is the amazing beauty
of its feminine population. Going deeper still, we find that the
secret of its success lies in the wonderful climate. There is but one
rainy season in Los Angeles during the year, and that is the month of
December.
Strange to say, Los Angeles is not on the sea-coast. It is twelve miles
to the nearest part of the beach. This seemed rather extraordinary
to me, particularly as San Francisco, with whom they are so eagerly
competing, stands on one of the finest and largest harbours in the
world. I remarked so to the _Times_ reporter one day. "But why," I
asked, "did they build Los Angeles so far from the sea?" "Oh well, you
see," he replied in all seriousness, "they had a mighty good idea about
things. They reckoned that by the time Los Angeles had really started
growing she'd be right on top of the Pacific, so they gave her a chance
and laid the place out twelve miles away." "Oh, was that it? I see,"
was my innocent retort.
Be that as it may, there is a network of beautiful, straight, concrete
roads leading from the city down to the coast in all directions.
Dozens of small residential towns are springing up amid this network
of roads--towns that some day will be suburbs of Los Angeles. At least
that is the way to think of them. And the roads themselves? On Saturday
afternoons and Sundays they are like great living arteries along which
flows an endless stream of motor-cars. The Californians know how to
enjoy themselves. There is not one fragment of the art of exterminating
boredom that they have not studied. They frivol _en masse_, and to do
it they naturally choose the sea-beach as a habitat. Consequently the
coast is strung with dozens of seaside resorts of every type and shade
of description, and with only a mile or two between them.
A trip to one of these "Los Angeles Beaches" is essential to the
education of the true student of Southern Californian civilization.
Never at any time have I seen public highways so completely covered
with motor-cars. The number seen approaches the incredible, in the eyes
of the astonished European. Frequently there were two almost endless
rows of cars with but a few feet between them, moving slowly along like
a gigantic procession several miles in length. Occasionally there would
be a hold-up, and the whole string of cars, one after the other, would
pull up, each car close upon its forerunner. Without exception, all
American cars are provided with buffers at front and rear so that the
car does not suffer any damage when one touches another even with quite
a severe impact. The obstruction is removed, and on the procession goes
again. Perhaps some unfortunate is changing a wheel at the roadside.
Then there is a big curve in the long, straight line where the more
fortunate Fords and Maxwells and Buicks and Overlands, etc., etc.,
swerve round him. And thus we carry on until the coast is reached.
Naturally the first glimpse I had of the Pacific Ocean gave me feelings
of unbounded joy. I even confess to having obeyed the childish instinct
to pick up shells and seaweed on the beach. It was a sight to look upon
until the majesty of the breakers and the infinite expanse of the deep
blue ocean eclipsed one's sense of magnitude altogether and one became
lost in a world of vision and fantasy.
I spent over a week in Los Angeles. During that time I was almost
overwhelmed with hospitality. The Californians I found easily the most
hospitable people in America. At every hand I found people, whom I had
neither seen nor heard of before, inviting me to dinner, and taking me
rides in their cars. Further, I found I was friends with the police,
and that without any difficulty either! In fact, the very air of
California is charged with friendliness. Consequently, I was sorry when
the day came when I should leave it behind.
Lizzie was finished. She had had a complete overhaul and several parts
of the engine replaced. Numerous telegrams and letters had been flashed
across the States to the works at Chicago. They were in vain. Although
still under the makers' guarantee, they would accept no responsibility.
I paid the last bill that made Lizzie's repair account just exceed the
amount I originally paid for her three months before and started out
to complete the journey to San Francisco. I cannot, however, omit to
mention the extreme courtesy and hospitality with which I was met at
the Henderson Agency itself. I could never at any time wish for better
attention or hope to make better friends in foreign countries than I
was fortunate enough to do in the "City of Angels." I left it with a
pang of regret.
It was late in the evening when I started. I found to my annoyance that
the lights were defective. The headlight was _hors de combat_. Only the
"dimmer" remained to light me on my way. I had about sixty dollars in
my pocket, though, so I was the perfection of happiness withal.
I am afraid those sixty dollars need some explanation. I arrived in
Los Angeles a week before with about twenty. The Post Office, as ever,
maintained an inexplicable silence. Having now quite reconciled myself
to being mailless wherever I went, save for a letter or two forwarded
through my friends in Cincinnati, I decided to direct my energies to a
profitable purpose while waiting for Lizzie's return from hospital.
I scanned the newspapers night and day. Had I been a tram-driver or
a page-boy I could have made a hit at once without any difficulty.
There was also a big demand for boot-blacks, but for anything that
suited my tastes and inclinations there was nothing. My small stock
of "greenbacks" (paper dollars) was slowly diminishing the while.
Something had to be done.
So I started in on journalism. Strange to say, I made money at it. With
the one exception of Kansas City, it is the only time I ever have.
Americans seemed interested in the impressions of stray Englishmen
through "God's own country." Better still, Californians seemed
interested to learn what one stray Englishman in particular had to say
about California on the one hand, and all the other States on the other!
I have the best of reasons for believing that they were perfectly
satisfied with my report. So that is how, after paying for Lizzie's
operation, I still had sixty odd dollars left to my credit.
The broad, well-lighted city streets with their trolley-cars soon were
left behind, and we rode for miles along boulevards of wondrous surface
through the residential quarters of Los Angeles. There were magnificent
bungalows of countless variety, the homes of both poor and rich.
Further on, we passed through Hollywood, the home of the homes of the
"movie" people. Occasionally would be seen a great block of buildings,
unpretentious in architecture but palatial in extent. These were the
"studios" where the films are made that instruct, amuse, and annoy the
world's population.
Finally, the last bungalow receded into the background and ahead was
inky blackness, a beautiful concrete highway, and the faint forms of
mountain ranges. In the darkness, dispelled only within a radius of a
few feet by the small pea-lamp that remained in service, everything
looked mystic, shadowy, and strange. It seemed just the night, just the
surroundings for adventure, the kind of environment that makes the
vagrant life so much worth living.
The road ran parallel with the coastline, some ten or more miles away,
but in between lay the Santa Monica Mountains, whose feet the highway
skirted. Sometimes the hill-sides were barren and rocky; other times
they were clothed in gloomy cedar forests. I wondered what strange
animals lurked in them and whether I should make the acquaintance of
any mountain lions, bears, wolves, wild cats and other animals that
still are plentiful in the mountain regions of California. Occasionally
a car passed, the glare of its headlights transforming the sombre
surroundings into a still stranger world of silver and gold. The road
for a few moments changed to a path of glistening white leading to
the unknown. And then, when the car dashed by, everything plunged
instantaneously into a sea of blackness so intense that it could almost
be felt.
I had intended to polish off a couple of hundred miles before morning.
I love nothing better than a long night ride on a good road. But lack
of illumination defied my intentions. After thirty miles I pulled in to
the side of the road where a great beech tree overhung its branches,
and laid down my ground-sheet upon the soft bed of dead leaves and nuts
that lay beneath.
It was the softest mattress that I have ever lain upon in the open. In
a few minutes I was fast asleep.
In the early hours of the morning I began to dream. I dreamt that some
great animal was walking slowly around me as I lay. It snuffled about,
grunting at intervals in a most dissatisfied manner. It is not a habit
of mine to dream about anything. I remember reflecting subconsciously
that I had ceased to dream of bears and such like when I reached the
age of four. Why then should I dream about them now? Oh, hang the
fellow! What is he making that confounded noise for?
A few minutes later I discovered that I was not dreaming at all. I
was wide awake. Without moving anything but my eyes I peered into the
darkness that still enshrouded everything. Sure enough I could make out
a huge black mass somewhere near my feet, but could not discern its
actual form.... Slowly, gently, I slipped my hand underneath my pillow.
At last, I thought, I shall have a chance of shooting at something
bigger than prairie-dogs! And then the thought struck me, how strange
it was that in all these thousands of miles of travelling through
plains and deserts and forests, my slumbers had never been interrupted
by any nocturnal visitor--I had not even SEEN anything that
could possibly annoy the most domesticated young person who loves his
feather-bed.
The big black thing became more distinct as I looked. His head was down
and he was engaged in wondering just exactly what my feet were and who
put them there; whether they'd be nice to eat if vegetable, and if not,
whether they were animal or mineral, and if so, why? I waited my time.
He put his head closer to smell the offending object. With a sudden
kick I landed out straight for his nose with my right foot. A yell rent
the air and the big black thing leapt away squealing into the darkness.
A 33 bullet followed him there just for luck.
His squeaks gradually died down as he scampered helter-skelter down the
road. It was only a poor harmless pig looking for nuts--but he had no
right to disturb my slumbers!
In the morning we continued towards the west. The end of the Santa
Monica Range came in sight and soon the road descended in long winding
"grades" towards the sea-coast. For the first time by daylight I saw
California in its true colours. Here I should mention that the height
of summer is not the best time to explore California. It is in the
winter and the spring that the country is arrayed in its greatest
glory. The lack of rain, even near the sea-coast, is so marked that
by the time summer is reaching its zenith, there is not a green
blade of grass to be seen. The face of the country, where it remains
uncultivated and unirrigated, is an eternal brown. At first this
brings a sense of disappointment to the traveller who has heard so
much of California's meadows of wonderful green mingled with the hues
of countless kinds of wild flowers. In summer-time there are none.
But in spring-time, when the sun has not started to blaze and the
rain has worked its miracles, the charm of the country must be beyond
description.
At Ventura, a pretty town on the sea-coast, Lizzie's speedometer ticked
off the 4,500th mile. There remained another 450 to be done, and the
journey would be at an end. I had little doubt now of getting there.
The roads were so good that motor-cycling was child's play. Indeed it
often became monotonous. At most times one could travel at almost any
speed of which one's machine was capable, and still the straight, flat
roads would be tiring to the point of boredom.
The towns and villages one passed, however, were full of charm. The
most famous road through California, El Camino Real--which means
"The Highway of the King"--was one which I was following and had its
origin in the old trail which the historic padres followed in the
romantic days of the Spanish occupation two and three hundred years
ago. This trail, blazed by the padres "by God's will for the reigning
monarch of Spain," stretches for 900 miles from Mexico to Oregon,
and along it there still stand the old Mission Houses that are so
prominent a feature of Californian history. There are nineteen of them,
each "a day's journey apart," and each of an entirely distinct and
characteristic type of architecture.
These Missions stand to-day, having with few exceptions been maintained
intact in their original form, and they serve as beautiful testimonies
to the genius of their builders. So admired is their style of
architecture that they are religiously copied, more so now than ever
before, in public buildings and sometimes private dwellings in all
parts of the West. One even sees railway stations and tramway termini
modelled in the form of one of these ancient Franciscan Missions!
If I was charmed with Ventura, I was thrice charmed with Santa Barbara,
another wonderful coast town of modern style built on an ancient site.
The old Santa Barbara Mission stands away up on the hill-sides of the
Santa Ynez Range above the town and looks over the blue waters of the
Pacific towards the craggy islands of Santa Cruz that lie beyond. For
sheer delight of climate, scenery, and surroundings I would forsake any
home in any town in any country that I have yet seen to live in Santa
Barbara, had I the wherewithal to do so.
Following the coastline, and in many places separated from it only
by a ridge of stones or a strip of vegetation, the road continues on
its happy way for many miles. On the left splash the deep blue waters
of the Pacific. On the right rise steeply the Santa Ynez Mountains,
which like a link in a great chain form, with many others, more or
less disjointed, the "coast range" that fringes the sea from Mexico
to Oregon. Sometimes the road is bordered with Yucca palms, sometimes
with pepper trees, and sometimes with eucalyptus. One even sees, almost
simultaneously, cactus plants and prickly pears growing amid the
parched-up grass on the sun-swept side of some unfriendly hill!
At Caviota, a few miles south of the famous "Point Conception," the
road leaves the coast and swerves inland. Across the tip of the Santa
Ynez Range it goes, swerving now to the left, then to the right,
climbing, dipping, and swerving again for sixty or seventy miles until
once more it catches a glimpse of the Pacific at El Pismo beach.
Near here I left the beaten track and followed a narrow pathway that
led around a hill-side to the cliffs. Here I made my bed down once
again in the long, dry grass that clothed the top. I could say with
tolerable certainty that never before had a motor-cycle followed that
path. It was soon no more than a little rut scarcely visible in the
grassy slope. But I achieved my objective. With the murmur of the sea,
as it dashed against the rocks a few hundred feet below, singing always
in my ears, I passed one more night of exquisite repose and magic charm.
I awoke in the morning and sniffed the sea air. It was very attractive
certainly, but was there not something the matter with it somehow? Or
was it my imagination? I wriggled half out of bed and peered over the
edge of the cliff. I stopped; I looked; I listened. Down there, on a
little bed of white sand, lay a dead seal stretched out flat, as one
would lay a tablecloth. He looked a dismal sight, poor fellow.
Ten miles more, inland again, and it was breakfast-time. We were at San
Luis Obispo, a fine little town at the foot of the Santa Margarita--one
more link in the coast range. San Luis Obispo took its name from an old
Mission founded in 1772, and once was the centre of wealth among the
Spaniards of the country.
Afterwards we cross the hills and continue northward. Always the
Southern Pacific Railroad is on our right, sometimes just a few feet
from the highway. The concrete has stopped and at intervals we have
our old friend, the natural gravel. The laying of concrete is being
proceeded with at many places, a hundred yards or so at a time, and
detours running parallel at the side connect us up with the road ahead.
Many little seedling towns are passed--all of them well planned and
well advertised--and at last we come to Paso Robles (Pass of the Oaks),
a larger town which derives its name from a great natural oak park. I
should mention that oak trees are abundant in California and they grow
often to a very great size.
We are now in the Salinas Valley, in proportion like a long, narrow
groove 100 miles long cut in the face of the country. Through it runs
the Salinas River, winding and bending with great sweeps through its
sandy bed. At midsummer it is dried up completely, and, from the
long wooden bridges that cross and re-cross it, looks like a sandy
sea-beach, with fences across from one bank to the other to stop the
cattle straying!
Along this valley blows a constant cool wind from the sea in the
north. All day long it blows, week in, week out. The further north one
proceeds the stronger it becomes, until it approaches almost a gale
that whistles down the narrow channel like a cold blast, even in the
broiling heat of the cloudless sun. Where, here and there, were to
be seen bunches of poplar trees and eucalyptus, they were invariably
leaning distinctly to the south, their gaunt trunks permanently moulded
by the inexorable wind. On the smaller trees, the sycamores and the
cedars, there was often not a branch nor a leaf to be seen on the
northern side of the trunk, the foliage almost touching the ground on
the southern side. Those hundred miles were the coldest I had known in
the whole journey, and always I found the head wind so strong that the
power of the machine seemed half absorbed in merely combating it.
San Miguel, San Ardo, King City, Soledad, Gonzales, and finally, at
five in the afternoon, Salinas was reached at the end of the valley.
San Francisco was now but little more than 100 miles beyond. To-morrow
would be the last day. The end was in sight.
But what of Lizzie? Alas, she was in a sorry condition. Gradually since
we left Los Angeles two days before she had fallen off in power. The
old rattles and noises had recurred with astonishing alacrity. I had
had many stops for minor adjustments and examinations, and even feared
another breakdown before the skyscrapers of 'Frisco loomed in sight.
The reader may be in as good a position as I to judge of the merits of
American compared with English motor-cycles, but he will admit that
seldom could occur a worse combination of bad luck and pig-headed
pertinacity than is witnessed in the wanderings of Lizzie and me
through the United States of America.
At Salinas I ate and drank right heartily, and drowned my sorrows in
wistful contemplation of the blue eyes of the gentle damsel who served
apple pie across the counter of the "quick-meal" luncheon bar.
"Lizzie, would you like to sleep by the sea to-night for the last
time? Think we can get there, old girl? It's twenty miles there and
twenty back, y' know!--Righto, c'mon!" and she burst once again into an
animated confusion of noise and life.
Monterey is on the coast. It stands surrounded by hills on a
magnificent bay which, with its yachts, motor-launches, and
fishing-boats, is one of the most famous beauty-spots of the
Californian coast. Monterey was once an important centre of history in
the early days of Spanish and Mexican sovereignty. Later, it enjoyed
the distinction of being the first spot in California where the
American flag was hoisted. Now it is little more than a seaside resort,
but as famous in California as is Naples in Italy.
A splendid highway leads from Salinas and cuts through beautiful hills
clothed in cedar and oak. The journey was worth doing, if only to
breathe the sea air again and sleep to its murmur.
It was rather a pathetic affair--that last night out. I hated to
leave Lizzie propped up on her stand on the low cliffs while I made a
comfortable bed in the sand on the beach. The tide was out, but I was
determined to get as near to the sea as possible. I chose a spot where,
nestled in a sandy cove in the rocks, I could see the breakers just a
score of yards from my feet.
I awoke in the early morning to find the sea barely a foot from my
feet. The tide rose higher than I had expected, but I had time to enjoy
a few delightful minutes of lying half awake in bed before I finally
proved discretion to be better than damp bedclothes and dragged my
belongings to a less obtrusive spot.
Thus dawned another day, the day that was to see the end. I had ample
time and lingered on the way, now administering friendly attention to
Lizzie, now stopping for a light refreshment or to take a leisurely
photograph. It was all too glorious--that last day.
But poor old Lizzie again showed signs of exhaustion. I nursed her
tenderly and rode as slowly as I felt inclined throughout the day.
Monterey was left behind after breakfast. Then Salinas was reached once
more, and now we were again on the road to 'Frisco.
Over the mountains to the east once again, down the San Juan Grade,
that wound and screwed itself round the rocky slopes, and we got to San
Juan, where the tall eucalyptus and waving pepper trees gave an air of
majesty to the fine old Mexican town it proved to be.
Then we turn to the north once more and enter another valley, the
valley of Santa Clara. The towns become larger and more frequent, the
country more developed. Orchards and fruit-groves are frequently seen.
At the roadsides, built up on trestles, are great water-tanks that are
used for irrigation. I notice that here and there, where the pipes that
lead to them have leaked a little, the dark brown soil below has burst
into great masses of fresh green grass, while all around is parched and
lifeless.
At San José we find a great fruit-growing centre, and at the same time
a beautiful city of many thousand inhabitants. Its streets are lined
with palms and its suburbs extend into the orange groves that abound on
every hand.
Simultaneously one cylinder starts to misfire, and then another. Soon
they are all missing. At intervals they would all chip in for a second
or two, and as suddenly chip out again. I smelt magneto trouble.
I also smelt prunes, millions of them. O Californian Prune, how often
have I eaten of thy tasty endocarp in far-off England! And here thou
art in myriads about me!
I stopped a dozen times, changed plugs, examined leads, and tinkered
with the magneto. Evidently there was something the matter inside the
magneto. I would trust to luck to get to 'Frisco--only forty miles more.
And thus we continued, sometimes dawdling along at fifteen and then
suddenly bursting into full power and shooting along at forty for
a minute or two, as Lizzie's peculiar whim would have it. It was
annoying, tiring, disheartening, but I felt I should get there. I had
long since planned a trip to the Yosemite National Park, returning
thence to the north across the border and eastward through Canada back
to New York. That little project would certainly never come off. I had
had enough already. I made one great big oath to sell Lizzie's carcase
for what it would bring in San Francisco. Poor old Lizzie! I pitied her
in a way. She must have been born with a curse on her head. But she
would have to go, if only for 100 dollars. Already I began wondering
who would get her after we had parted.
After ten miles appeared the southern tip of the great harbour that
stretches inland to north and south from San Francisco. This bay is
fifty miles long and ten miles wide and forms one of the grandest
harbours in the world. All the navies of all the nations of the earth
could be comfortably tucked away in a corner of it. The road follows
within a few miles of the western shore of this inland sea, and at
every few miles are small, fast-growing cities comparable with nothing
but their prototypes that cluster around Los Angeles. For here we
are absolutely in the centre of the wine-making district. Sixty
years ago cuttings and rooted vines of every variety found in Europe
were brought to California and planted, mostly around this great bay
of San Francisco, where the frequent sea-fogs contribute so much to
the maintenance of perfect conditions for the growing of vines. They
flourished, and now we have Médocs and Sauternes and Moselles and
countless others from California, as well as from France.
For miles and miles we see nothing but vineyards and fruit-groves.
There is no fence, no ditch, no railing. The orange trees and plum
trees fringe the very road. It is not possible to say where one estate
ends and another begins. The owners probably know.
The towns are now so thick that with them also it is difficult to say
where one ends and another begins. Only another fifteen miles! Poor old
Lizzie, she may peg out altogether.
But no. She keeps at it. Sometimes she ceases firing altogether,
but only for a moment. On she goes again, now on one, now on four
cylinders. Hey ho! We shall get there all right.
'Buses and cars in hundreds pass in both directions. We shall soon be
in 'Frisco now.
Tram-lines appear and then trams. Trolley-cars, they call them in
America. 'Frisco at last!
I dodge in and out of the traffic as best I may. It is very thick
indeed, and in very much of a hurry. I sail down Market Street, the
"Strand" of San Francisco. What matter if Lizzie clatters and rattles
and stops and shoots on again? She has brought me here. And as I say
so, the little indicator on the speedometer moves to 4,950. Just 50
miles short of 5,000 from New York! Gee! it seems like an extract from
another life, that departure from far-off New York. And how long? Three
months? It feels like twelve at the least!
I found the post office and sang out for mail. Sure enough there was
some--forwarded from Cincinnati. I learnt for the first time that the
detailed "Schedules" that I had dispatched three months ago at New
York had not yet reached England. Hence the reason for the seeming
unkindliness of the Post Office en route. But where were they? I was
not to know until a week after my return to England, when they arrived
suddenly, without any warning, and simultaneously, to all my friends
and relatives there. They had been all round British East Africa;
Heaven and the New York postal authorities alone know why! I had not
counted on such waywardness on their part when in my innocence of
American ways I had dropped them in the post-box at New York.
Thus ends my tale of woe. It is a strange thing, but nevertheless true,
that now I have done with it and written about it and done with writing
about it, I still think what a glorious trip it was and what a perfect
ass I was to do it, and what a still greater ass I was to say anything
about it!
EPILOGUE
SCENE I
SCENE.--_Outside the Post Office, San Francisco, Cal._
TIME.--_August_, 1919.
CHARACTERS
LIZZIE.
MYSELF.
AN ARMENIAN.
CROWD OF LOUNGERS, SMALL BOYS, AND WOMEN OF VARIOUS NATIONALITIES.
(SELF _emerges from portals of Post Office. Chorus of
voices from crowd._)
"'Ere'e is; look at his face; look at his chest. You're one
globe-trotter, I'll reckon. How long did it take? How much has it cost?
What did you do it for? How'd you like San Francisco?" etc., etc., etc.
MYSELF (_dangerously ruffled at not having received a
cheque_). "Well, and what are you all gaping at, like a lot of
half-witted school-kids? Never seen a motor-cycle before? Here, you (to
ARMENIAN), where's the Clift Hotel?"
ARMENIAN. "Do you vont to zell zis machine?"
MYSELF (_successfully concealing rapture at the suggestion_).
"Sell her, after she's brought me all the way from New York? SELL
HER? Why, I'd sooner sell my mother-in-law."
ARMENIAN. "I vill gif you 'undred dollar right 'ere."
MYSELF. "Hundred dollars be damned, and you with 'em! Where's
the Clift?"
CHORUS OF VOICES. "Up the hill here and second on the right.
Von 'undred dollar. Follow the trams. Give us yer water-bag, boss. Look
at his boots. There's a cop on the corner. Von 'undred ten dollar,
right now. Look at 'is 'air," etc., etc.
(_Exit slowly in procession_, SELF _leading; Alarums and
Excursions._)
SCENE II
SCENE.--_My room at the Clift Hotel._
_Half an hour has elapsed._
(SELF _discovered, washing face. There is a knock at the
door._)
SELF. "Come in."
(_Enter_ ARMENIAN.)
ARMENIAN. "Ah, 'ere you vos. Ze manager tolt me your room. I
come right up."
SELF. "Apparently."
ARMENIAN. "I vont to buy your motorsickle; vot you vont for
'im?"
SELF. "Speak respectfully, please. I want 500 dollars for
HER."
ARMENIAN (_throwing up his hands in horror_). "Ah, zat vos too
much, my frent! Dot vos more zan you give for 'im--for 'ER."
SELF. "And how the devil do you know what I gave for her?"
ARMENIAN. "I haf made enquiries, jhust. I af bin to ze aghency
'ere. Zey say it vos 480 dollars."
SELF. "Well, any fool knows a machine improves with running
(the blush is unnoticed beneath my Indian complexion); and what's more,
if a machine can stick it all the way across THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA it must be a dem good one. I should have asked 600, but I
like your face (_cold shivers down spine_), so I only want 500."
ARMENIAN. "Ah, zat vos far too much. I vill gif you von
'undred fifteen--no more."
SELF. "Nothin' doin', bo. Five hundred. Here's my card; you
can call round any time between now and to-morrow midday with the
money. If you can't do it by then, you can drop in and see me at
Salt Lake City after next Wednesday, or Chicago after next Saturday.
Cheerio; close the door as you go out."
ARMENIAN (_reading card and much awed by same_). "Ah, you vos
Mistaire Sh---- Captin Sheffer, R.A.F.? I tink you vos vaire rich man.
You could afford to GIF me ze machine! Not so? Me vaire poor
man, Captain Sheffer, R.A.F."
SELF. "If you knew as much about the Air Force as I do, you'd
know better, my friend. Now, for Heaven's sake, BUZZ OFF, and
don't worry me."
(_Exit_ ARMENIAN _with bows, shuffles of the feet, and
salaams_.)
SCENE III
SCENE.--_The same._ _Half an hour later._ _A knock._
SELF. "Come right in."
(_Enter_ ARMENIAN.)
SELF. "What, again? Got the 500?"
ARMENIAN. "Grieved to trouble you vonce more, Captin Sheffer,
R.A.F., but all ze money I 'af in ze world vos von 'undred twenty-five
dollar. Me vaire poor man, Capt----"
SELF. "Yes, I've heard you say so. I believe you. Now we're
both liars."
ARMENIAN. "Ah no, you insult me, Captin Sheffer, R.A.F. I am
poor, but I am 'onorable man. I tell always ze truth. Zat vos all I 'af
in all ze vorld."
SELF. "Look here, Mister--I don't know what your name is, but
I guess you're a Hebrew of some kind----"
ARMENIAN. "My name is Mistaire Karachan, and I come from
Armenia."
SELF (_aside_--"I might have guessed it."). "Well, Mr.
Karachan, I'll take your word for it. Give me 125 right now and you
can take the machine away with you. She's outside on the pavement. But
mind, I shall never want to see your face again."
ARMENIAN (_moved almost to tears_). "Ah, you vos a torough
zhentleman, Mistaire Sheffer; all ze Englishmen are zhentlemen. Zer is
only von contry in all ze vorld vaire zer are such zhentlemen."
SELF. "Well, you can hand over the wealth right now, here."
ARMENIAN. "Ah, but I 'af not got it wiz me, Mistaire Sheffer.
It is too much to carry about in my pocket. But I can gif you fifty
dollar and bring ze rest zis afternoon. Zat vos alright? I can take ze
machine now, yes no?"
SELF. "You can take the machine when you've paid me 125
dollars IN CASH, and not till then. Get me? I shall be in
again at two this afternoon. You can meet me in the hall with the
money. Good-bye till then."
ARMENIAN. "Vell, you vill gif me written undertaking not to
sell it to anyvon till then, Captin Sheffer, R.A.F.?"
SCENE IV
SCENE.--_The same._
TIME.--_3 p.m._
(_A knock on the door, followed by_ ARMENIAN.)
ARMENIAN. "Mistaire Sheffer, I 'af come to make you a good
bargain. You see zis gold votch? It vos giffen me by my fazer and it is
solid gold wiz twenty-von jewels. You could sell it anywhere for fifty
dollar. Now you 'af bin zhentleman to me, I vill be zhentleman to you.
I vill give you ze votch and von 'undred dollar for your motorsickle!
Is it not a bargain, Mistaire Sheffer?"
SELF. "Get out!"
SCENE V
SCENE.--_The same._
TIME.--_An hour later._ _A knock on the door._
(_Enter_ ARMENIAN.)
ARMENIAN. "Oh, Mistaire Sheffer, I 'af jhust von more offer
to----"
SELF. "Look here, Mr. Karachan, I'm getting fed up with you.
Better quit before I bang this water-jug on your head. You've wasted
all my day as it is."
ARMENIAN. "Ah, you vill not do zat. I know you vill not do
zat. You are too much zhentleman. But wait, Mistaire Sheffer. Hear me
vot I say. I 'af von great big suggestion to make for you. I make my
living viz growing fruit. I 'af small plantation only five mile from
'ere. I vill pay you for your motorsickle viz grapes. I vill gif you
five ton of beautiful grapes and send them wherever you like in United
States. Or if you not like zat, I vill gif you 'undred dollar and von
ton of grapes. Is zat not good offer, yes no?"
SELF (_recovering from momentary speechlessness at the thought
of swapping Lizzie for five tons of grapes_). "Look here, Mr. Karachan,
I've had enough of this fooling. I've undertaken to sell you the
machine for 125 dollars, and if you don't bring me the money, and all
of it, right now, I'll report you to the police. Now there's an end of
it. Get out."
(_Exit_ ARMENIAN _amid more alarums and excursions_.)
SCENE VI
SCENE.--_The same._
TIME.--_7 p.m. A knock._ (_Enter_ ARMENIAN.)
ARMENIAN. "Oh, Captin Sheffer, R.A.F., I 'af got your money
'ere, but I 'af bin to ze police to register ze machine and zey say I
'af stolen it and vould not let me come away. After much trouble we
telephone a big frend of mine who know police and zey let me come away.
But zey vont your address and ze registration certificate you 'af in
New York."
SELF. "But, Good Lord, man, who the devil said you could
register it? It isn't yours yet! Give me the money."
ARMENIAN (_handing me fifty dollars and a cheque for
seventy-five_). "'Ere it vos, but you vos not angry, Captin Sheffer,
R.A.F? I vonted only to save time, because I vont to use ze machine
to-morrow."
SELF. "Yes, but this is no good (_showing the cheque_). This
isn't CASH. How do I know this'll be honoured? Besides, the
banks are closed now and won't be open till Monday, and I'm leaving
to-morrow."
ARMENIAN. "Ah, but no, zey vill 'onour ze cheque. Mistaire
---- is vaire well known in San Francisco. You can speak to 'im on ze
telephone if you like and 'e vill tell you ze cheque is all right."
SELF. "No doubt, but all the same I'll see if the hotel
manager here will cash it. If he won't, that's good enough for me. Come
along, and we'll see him together."
ARMENIAN. "But you vill gif me receipt now, yes no? Ah, but
vot is zis? _(picking up a small adjustable spanner that lay on the
dressing-table)._ It is part of ze machine! You vould not surely make
me pay for a motor-sickle vizout no tools? Ah, Captin Sheffer, R.A.F.,
it is not jhust; I must 'ave everyzing. Are zer any more----" (_At
this juncture_ ARMENIAN _is successfully extruded through the
doorway, still protesting volubly._)
SCENE VII
SCENE.--_In the hall of the Hotel. Manager behind desk._
SELF. "Excuse me, but I have a favour to ask. I have just
done a deal with this gentleman, but as all the banks are closed till
Monday, I am wondering if you would be good enough to cash this cheque
for me as I am leaving for the East to-morrow."
(MANAGER _looks closely at me and proceeds to open till; then,
looking at_ ARMENIAN, _pauses for a moment. Ultimately the
money is paid over._)
(ARMENIAN _and_ SELF _walk toward door opening on to
street_.)
SELF. "What the blazes! Where's Lizzie? I left her up against
the pavement. She's gone!"
ARMENIAN. "Oh, zat vos alright. I move 'er zis afternoon to a
garage round ze corner. Jhust zink how terrible it would be if some one
stole 'im!"
SELF. "Well, I'll be goldarned!"
SCENE VIII
SCENE.--_Garage "round the corner." Lizzie stands surrounded
by darkness_, ARMENIAN, _and_ SELF. SELF
_discovered explaining to_ ARMENIAN _how the wheels go round
and why._
SELF. "Well, good-bye, Lizzie, old girl. I grieve to let you
go into the hands of this being, but it is all for the best. We've had
some jolly times together, but the time is come to part. Good-bye, once
and for all; good-bye, GOOD-BYE----"
ARMENIAN. "Ah, Mistaire Sheffer, you 'av forgot ze adjustable
spanner!"
Transcriber's Notes
Minor punctuation errors were silently corrected, and oe ligatures
were spaced out.
Page 39: In the sentence: "and anyone found guilty of exceeding 60
miles per hour will be liable to a fine of 100 dollars, etc., etc."
"60" may be a typo for "50" because the following sentence says the
fine for exceeding 60 miles per hour is "250 dollars for the first
offence...."
Page 48: "Pittsburg" may be typo for "Pittsburgh."
(At Waynesburg I passed Pittsburg some miles to the right,)
End of Project Gutenberg's Across America by Motor-cycle, by C. K. Shepherd