"Cupid will never use the automobile, the little god is too
conservative; fancy the dainty sprite with oil-can and waste
instead of bow and arrow. I can see him with smut on the end of
his mischievous nose and grease on the seat of the place where his
trousers ought to be. What a picture he would make in overalls and
jumper, leather jacket and cap; he could not use dart or arrow, at
best he could only run the machine hither and thither bunting
people into love--knocking them senseless, which is perhaps the
same thing. No, no, Cupid will never use the automobile. Imagine
Aphrodite in goggles, clothed in dust, her fair skin red from
sunburn and glistening with cold cream; horrible nightmare of a
mechanical age, avaunt!
"The chariots of High Olympus were never greased, they used no
gasoline, the clouds we see about them are condensed zephyrs and
not dust. Omniscient Jove never used a monkey-wrench, never sought
the elusive spark, never blew up a four-inch tire with a half-inch
pump. Even if the automobile could surmount the grades, it would
never be popular on Olympian heights. Mercury might use it to
visit Vulcan, but he would never go far from the shop.
"As for conditions here on earth, why should a young woman go
riding with a man whose hands, arms, and attention are entirely
taken up with wheels, levers, and oil-cups? He can't even press
her foot without running the risk of stopping the machine by
releasing some clutch; if he moves his knees a hair's-breadth in
her direction it does something to the mechanism; if he looks her
way they are into the ditch; if she attempts to kiss him his
goggles prevent; his sighs are lost in the muffler and hers in the
exhaust; nothing but dire disaster will bring an automobile
courtship to a happy termination; as long as the machine goes
love-making is quite out of the question.
"Dobbin, dear old secretive Dobbin, what difference does it make
to you whether you feel the guiding hand or not? You know when the
courtship begins, the brisk drives about town to all points of
interest, to the pond, the poorhouse, and the cemetery; you know
how the courtship progresses, the long drives in the country, the
idling along untravelled roads and woodland ways, the moonlight
nights and misty meadows; you know when your stops to nibble by
the wayside will not be noticed, and you alone know when it is
time to get the young couple home; you know, alas! when the
courtship--blissful period of loitering for you--is ended and when
the marriage is made, by the tighter rein, the sharper word, and
the occasional swish of the whip. Ah, Dobbin, you and I--" The
Professor was becoming indiscreet.
"What do you know about love-making, Professor?"
"My dear fellow, it is the province of learning to know everything
and practise nothing."
"But Dobbin--"
"We all have had our Dobbins."
For some miles the road out of Erie was soft, dusty, narrow, and
poor--by no means fit for the proposed Erie-Buffalo race. About
fifteen miles out there is a sharp turn to the left and down a
steep incline with a ravine and stream below on the right,--a
dangerous turn at twenty miles an hour, to say nothing of forty or
fifty.
There is nothing to indicate that the road drops so suddenly after
making the turn, and we were bowling along at top speed; a wagon
coming around the corner threw us well to the outside, so that the
margin of safety was reduced to a minimum, even if the turn were
an easy one.
As we swung around the corner well over to the edge of the ravine,
we saw the grade we had to make. Nothing but a succession of small
rain gullies in the road saved us from going down the bank. By so
steering as to drop the skidding wheels on the outside into each
gully, the sliding of the machine received a series of violent
checks and we missed the brink of the ravine by a few inches.
A layman in the Professor's place would have jumped; but he, good
man, looked upon his escape as one of the incidents of automobile
travel.
"When I accepted your invitation, my dear fellow, I expected
something beyond the ordinary. I have not been disappointed."
It was a wonder the driving-wheels were not dished by the violent
side strains, but they were not even sprung. These wheels were of
wire tangential spokes; they do not look so well as the smart,
heavy, substantial wooden wheels one sees on nearly all imported
machines and on some American.
The sense of proportion between parts is sadly outraged by
spindle-wire wheels supporting the massive frame-work and body of
an automobile; however strong they may be in reality,
architecturally they are quite unfit, and no doubt the wooden
wheel will come more and more into general use.
A wooden wheel with the best of hickory spokes possesses an
elasticity entirely foreign to the rigid wire wheel, but good
hickory wheels are rare; paint hides a multitude of sins when
spread over wood; and inferior wooden wheels are not at all to be
relied upon.
Soon we begin to catch glimpses of Lake Erie through the trees and
between the hills, just a blue expanse of water shining in the
morning sun, a sapphire set in the dull brown gold of woods and
fields. Farther on we come out upon the bluffs overlooking the
lake and see the smoke and grime of Buffalo far across. What a
blot on a view so beautiful!
"Civilization," said the Professor, "is the subjection of nature.
In the civilization of Athens nature was subdued to the ends of
beauty; in the civilization of America nature is subdued to the
ends of usefulness; in every civilization nature is of secondary
importance, it is but a means to an end. Nature and the savage,
like little children, go hand in hand, the one the complement of
the other; but the savage grows and grows, while nature remains
ever a child, to sink subservient at last to its early playmate.
Just now we in this country are treating nature with great
harshness, making of her a drudge and a slave; her pretty hands
are soiled, her clean face covered with soot, her clothing
tattered and torn. Some day, we as a nation will tire of playing
the taskmaster and will treat the playmate of man's infancy and
youth with more consideration; we will adorn and not disfigure
her, love and not ignore her, place her on a throne beside us,
make her queen to our kingship."
"Professor, the automobile hardly falls in with your notions."
"On the contrary, the automobile is the one absolutely fit
conveyance for America. It is a noisy, dirty, mechanical
contrivance, capable of great speed; it is the only vehicle in
which one could approach that distant smudge on the landscape with
any sense of the eternal fitness of things. A coach and four would
be as far behind the times on this highway as a birch-bark canoe
on yonder lake. In America an automobile is beautiful because it
is in perfect harmony with the spirit of the age and country; it
is twin brother to the trolley; train, trolley, and automobile may
travel side by side as members of one family, late offsprings of
man's ingenuity."
"But you would not call them things of beauty?"
"Yes and no; beauty is so largely relative that one cannot
pronounce hideous anything that is a logical and legitimate
development. Considered in the light of things the world
pronounces beautiful, there are no more hideous monstrosities on
the face of the earth than train, trolley, and automobile; but
each generation has its own standard of beauty, though it seldom
confesses it. We say and actually persuade ourselves that we
admire the Parthenon; in reality we admire the mammoth factory and
the thirty-story office building. Strive as we may to deceive
ourselves by loud protestations, our standards are not the
standards of old. We like best the things we have; we may call
things ugly, but we think them beautiful, for they are part of
us,--and the automobile fits into our surroundings like a pocket
in a coat. We may turn up our noses at it or away from it, as the
case may be, but none the less it is the perambulator of the
twentieth century."
It was exactly one o'clock when we pulled up near the City Hall.
Total time from Erie five hours and fifty minutes, actual running
time five hours, distance by road about ninety-four miles.
CHAPTER SIX BUFFALO
THE MIDWAY
Housing the machine in a convenient and well-appointed stable for
automobiles, we were reminded of the fact that we had arrived in
Buffalo at no ordinary time, by a charge of three dollars per
night for storage, with everything else extra. But was it not the
Exposition we had come to see? and are not Expositions
proverbially expensive--to promoters and stockholders as well as
visitors?
Then, too, the hotels of Buffalo had expected so much and were so
woefully disappointed. Vast arrays of figures had been compiled
showing that within a radius of four hundred miles of Buffalo
lived all the people in the United States who were worth knowing.
The statistics were not without their foundation in fact, but
therein lay the weakness of the entire scheme so far as hotels
were concerned; people lived so near they could leave home in the
morning with a boiled egg and a sandwich, see the Exposition and
get back at night. Travellers passing through would stop over
during the day and evening, then go their way on a midnight
train,--it was cheaper to ride in a Pullman than stay in Buffalo.
We might have taken rooms at Rochester, running back and forth
each day in the machine,--though Rochester was by no means beyond
the zone of exorbitant charges. Notions of value become very much
congested within a radius of two or three hundred miles of any
great Exposition.
The Exposition was well worth seeing in parts by day and as a
whole by night. The electrical display at night was a triumph of
engineering skill and architectural arrangement. It was the falls
of Niagara turned into stars, the mist of the mighty cascade
crystallized into jewels, a brilliant crown to man's triumph over
the forces of nature.
It was a wonderful and never-to-be-forgotten sight to sit by the
waters at night, as the shadows were folding the buildings in
their soft embrace, and see the first faint twinklings of the
thousands upon thousands of lights as the great current of
electricity was turned slowly on; and then to see the lights grow
in strength until the entire grounds were bathed in suffused
radiance,--that was as wonderful a sight as the world of
electricity has yet witnessed, and it was well worth crossing an
ocean to see; it was the one conspicuous success, the one
memorable feature of the Exposition, and compared with it all
exhibits and scenes by day were tame and insipid.
From time immemorial it has been the special province of the
preacher to take the children to the circus and the side show; for
the children must go, and who so fit to take them as the preacher?
After all, is not the sawdust ring with its strange people, its
giants, fairies, hobgoblins, and clowns, a fairy land, not really
real, and therefore no more wicked than fairy land? Do they not
fly by night? are they not children of space? the enormous tents
spring up like mushrooms, to last a day; for a few short hours
there is a medley of strange sounds,--a blare of trumpets, the
roar of strange beasts, the ring of strange voices, the crackling
of whips; there are prancing steeds and figures in costumes
curious,--then, flapping of canvas, creaking of poles, and all is
silent. Of course it is not real, and every one may go. The circus
has no annals, knows no gossip, presents no problems; it is
without morals and therefore not immoral. It is the one joyous
amusement that is not above, but quite outside the pale of
criticism and discussion. Therefore, why should not the preacher
go and take the children?
But the Midway. Ah! the Midway, that is quite a different matter;
but still the preacher goes,--leaving the children at home.
Learning is ever curious. The Professor, after walking patiently
through several of the buildings and admiring impartially sections
of trees from Cuba and plates of apples from Wyoming, modestly
expressed a desire for some relaxation.
"The Midway is something more than a feature, it is an element. It
is the laugh that follows the tears; the joke that relieves the
tension; the Greeks invariably produced a comedy with their
tragedies; human nature demands relaxation; to appreciate the
serious, the humorous is absolutely essential. If the Midway were
not on the grounds the people would find it outside. Capacity for
serious contemplation differs with different peoples and in
different ages,--under Cromwell it was at a maximum, under Charles
II. it was at a minimum; the Puritans suppressed the laughter of a
nation; it broke out in ridicule that discriminated not between
sacred and profane. The tension of our age is such that diversions
must recur quickly. The next great Exposition may require two
Midways, or three or four for the convenience of the people. You
can't get a Midway any too near the anthropological and
ethnological sections; a cinematograph might be operated as an
adjunct to the Fine Arts building; a hula-hula dancer would
relieve the monotony of a succession of big pumpkins and prize
squashes."
At that moment the Professor became interested in the strange
procession entering the streets of Cairo, and we followed. Before
he got out it cost him fifty cents to learn his name, a quarter
for his fortune, ten cents for his horoscope, and sundry amounts
for gems, jewels, and souvenirs of the Orient.
Through his best hexameter spectacles he surveyed the dark-eyed
daughter of the Nile who was telling his fortune with a strong
Irish accent; all went smoothly until the prophetess happened to
see the Professor's sunburnt nose, fiery red from the four days'
run in wind and rain, and said warningly,--
"You are too fond of good eating and drinking; you drink too much,
and unless you are more temperate you will die in twenty years."
That was too much for the Professor, whose occasional glass of
beer--a habit left over from his student days--would not discolor
the nose of a humming-bird.
There were no end of illusions, mysteries, and deceptions. The
greatest mystery of all was the eager desire of the people to be
deceived, and their bitter and outspoken disappointment when they
were not. As the Professor remarked,--
"There never has been but one real American, and that was Phineas
T. Barnum. He was the genuine product of his country and his
times,--native ore without foreign dross. He knew the American
people as no man before or since has known them; he knew what the
American people wanted, and gave it to them in large unadulterated
doses,--humbug."
Tuesday morning was spent in giving the machine a thorough
inspection, some lost motion in the eccentric was taken up, every
nut and screw tightened, and the cylinder and intake mechanism
washed out with gasoline.
It is a good plan to clean out the cylinder with gasoline once
each week or ten days; it is not necessary, but the piston moves
with much greater freedom and the compression is better.
However good the cylinder oil used, after six or eight days' hard
and continuous running there is more or less residuum; in the very
nature of things there must be from the consumption of about a
pint of oil to every hundred miles.
Many use kerosene to clean cylinders, but gasoline has its
advantages; kerosene is excellent for all other bearings,
especially where there may be rust, as on the chain; but kerosene
is in itself a low grade oil, and the object in cleaning the
cylinder is to cut out all the oil and leave it bright and dry
ready for a supply of fresh oil.
After putting in the gasoline, the cylinder and every bearing
which the gasoline has touched should be thoroughly lubricated
before starting.
Lubrication is of vital importance, and the oil used makes all the
difference in the world.
Many makers of machines have adopted the bad practice of putting
up oil in cans under their own brands, and charging, of course,
two prices per gallon. The price is of comparatively little
consequence, though an item; for it does not matter so much
whether one pays fifty cents or a dollar a gallon, so long as the
best oil is obtained; the pernicious feature of the practice lies
in wrapping the oil in mystery, like a patent medicine,--"Smith's
Cylinder Oil" and "Jones's Patent Pain-Killer" being in one and
the same category. Then they warn--patent medicine methods again
--purchasers of machines that their particular brand of oil must
be used to insure best results.
The one sure result is that the average user who knows nothing
about lubricating oils is kept in a state of frantic anxiety lest
his can of oil runs low at a time and place where he cannot get
more of the patent brand.
Every manufacturer should embody in the directions for caring for
the machine information concerning all the standard oils that can
be found in most cities, and recommend the use of as many
different brands as possible.
Machine oil can be found in almost any country village, or at any
mill, factory, or power-house along the road; it is the cylinder
oil that requires fore-thought and attention.
Beware of steam-cylinder oil and all heavy and gummy oils. Rub a
little of any oil that is offered between the fingers until it
disappears,--the better the oil the longer you can rub it. If it
leaves a gummy or sticky feeling, do not use; but if it rubs away
thin and oily, it is probably good. Of course the oiliest of oils
are animal fats, good lard, and genuine sperm; but they work down
very thin and run away, and genuine sperm oil is almost an unknown
quantity. Lard can be obtained at every farmhouse, and may be
used, if necessary, on bearings.
In an emergency, olive oil and probably cotton-seed oil may be
used in the cylinder. Olive oil is a fine lubricant, and is used
largely in the Italian and Spanish navies.
Many special brands are probably good oils and safe to use, but
there is no need of staking one's trip upon any particular brand.
All good steam-cylinder oils contain animal oil to make them
adhere to the side of the cylinder; a pure mineral oil would be
washed away by the steam and water.
To illustrate the action of oils and water, take a clean bottle,
put in a little pure mineral oil, add some water, and shake hard;
the oil will rise to the top of the water in little globules
without adhering at all to the sides of the bottle; in short, the
bottle is not lubricated. Instead of a pure mineral oil put in any
steam-cylinder oil which is a compound of mineral and animal; and
as the bottle is shaken the oil adheres to the glass, covering the
entire inner surface with a film that the water will not rinse
off.
As there is supposed--erroneously--to be no moisture in the
cylinder of a gas-engine, the use of any animal oil is said to be
unnecessary; as there is moisture in the cylinder of a
steam-engine, some animal oil is absolutely essential in the
cylinder oil.
For the lubrication of chains and all parts exposed to the
weather, compounds of oil or grease which contain a liberal amount
of animal fat are better. Rain and the splash of mud and water
will wash off mineral oil as fast as it can be applied; in fact,
under adverse weather conditions it does not lubricate at all; the
addition of animal fat makes the compound stick.
Graphite and mica are both good chain lubricants, but if mixed
with a pure mineral base, such as vaseline, they will wash off in
mud and water. Before putting on a chain, it is a good thing to dip
it in melted tallow and then grease it thoroughly from time to
time with a graphite compound of vaseline and animal fat.
One does not expect perfection in a machine, but there is not an
automobile made, according to the reports of users, which does not
develop many crudities and imperfections in construction which
could be avoided by care and conscientious work in the factory,
--crudities and imperfections which customers and users have
complained of time and time again, but without avail.
At best the automobile is a complicated and difficult machine in
the hands of the amateur, and so far it has been made almost
impossible by its poor construction. With good construction there
will be troubles enough in operation, but at the present time
ninety per cent. of the stops and difficulties are due to
defective construction.
As the machine comes it looks so well, it inspires unbounded
confidence, but the first time it is seen in undress, with the
carriage part off, the machinery laid bare, the heart sinks, and
one's confidence oozes out.
Parts are twisted, bent, and hammered to get them into place,
bearings are filed to make them fit, bolts and screws are weak and
loose, nuts gone for the want of cotter-pins; it is as if
apprentice blacksmiths had spent their idle moments in
constructing a machine.
The carriage work is hopelessly bad. The building of carriages is
a long-established industry, employing hundreds of thousands of
hands and millions of capital, and yet in the entire United States
there are scarcely a dozen builders of really fine, substantial,
and durable vehicles. Yet every cross-road maker of automobiles
thinks that if he can only get his motor to go, the carpenter next
door can do his woodwork. The result is cheap stock springs,
clips, irons, bodies, cushions, tops, etc., are bought and put
over the motor. The use of aluminum bodies and more metal work
generally is helping things somewhat; not that aluminum and metal
work are necessarily better than wood, but it prevents the
unnatural union of the light wood bodies, designed for cheap
horse-vehicles, with a motor. The best French makers do not build
their bodies, but leave that part to skilled carriage builders.
CHAPTER SEVEN BUFFALO TO CANANDAIGUA
BEWARE OF THE COUNTRY MECHANIC
The five hundred and sixty-odd miles to Buffalo had been covered
with no trouble that delayed us for more than an hour, but our
troubles were about to begin.
The Professor had still a few days to waste frivolously, so he
said he would ride a little farther, possibly as far as Albany.
However, it was not our intention to hurry, but rather take it
easily, stopping by the way, as the mood--or our friends--seized
us.
It rained all the afternoon of Tuesday, about all night, and was
raining steadily when we turned off Main Street into Genesee with
Batavia thirty-eight miles straight away. We fully expected to
reach there in time for luncheon; in fact, word had been sent
ahead that we would "come in," like a circus, about twelve, and
friends were on the lookout,--it was four o'clock when we reached
town.
The road is good, gravel nearly every rod, but the steady rain had
softened the surface to the depth of about two inches, and the
water, sand, and gravel were splashed in showers and sheets by the
wheels into and through every exposed part of the mechanism. Soon
the explosions became irregular, and we found the cams operating
the sparker literally plastered over with mud, so that the parts
that should slide and work with great smoothness and rapidity
would not operate at all. This happened about every four or five
miles. This mechanism on this particular machine was so
constructed and situated as to catch and hold mud, and the fine
grit worked in, causing irregularities in the action. This trouble
we could count upon as long as the road was wet; after noon, when
the sun came out and the road began to dry, we had less trouble.
When about half-way to Batavia the spark began to show blue; the
reserve set of dry batteries was put in use, but it gave no better
results. Apparently there was either a short circuit, or the
batteries were used up; the bad showing of the reserve set puzzled
us; every connection was examined and tightened. The wiring of the
carriage was so exposed to the weather that it was found
completely saturated in places with oil and covered with mud. The
rubber insulation had been badly disintegrated wherever oil had
dropped on it. The wires were cleaned as thoroughly as possible
and separated wherever the insulation seemed poor. The loss of
current was probably at the sparking coil; the mud had so covered
the end where the binding parts project as to practically join
them by a wet connection. Cleaning this off and protecting the
binding parts with insulating tape we managed to get on, the spark
being by no means strong, and the reserve battery for some reason
weak.
If we had had a small buzzer, such as is sold for a song at every
electrical store, to say nothing of a pocket voltmeter, we would
have discovered in a moment that the reserve battery contained one
dead cell, the resistance of which made the other cells useless.
At Batavia we tested them out with an ordinary electric bell,
discovering at once the dead cell.
After both batteries are so exhausted that the spark is weak, the
current from both sets can be turned on at the same time in two
ways; by linking the cells in multiples,--that is, side by side,
or in series,--tandem.
The current from cells in multiples is increased in volume but not
in force, and gives a fat spark; the current from cells in series
is doubled in force and gives a long blue hot spark. Both sparks,
if the cells are fresh, will burn the points, though giving much
better explosions.
As the batteries weaken, first connect them in multiples, then, as
they weaken still more, in series.
Always carry a roll of insulating tape, or on a pinch bicycle
tire-tape will do very well. Wrap carefully every joint, and the
binding-posts of the cells for the tape will hold as against
vibration when the little binding-screws will not. In short, use
the tape freely to insulate, protect, and support the wires and
all connections.
If the machine is wired with light and poorly insulated wire, it
is but a question of time when the wiring must be done over again.
When we pulled up in Batavia at an electrician's for repairs, the
Professor was a sight--and also tired. The good man had floundered
about in the mud until he was picturesquely covered. At the outset
he was disposed to take all difficulties philosophically.
"I should regret exceedingly," he remarked at our first
involuntary stop, "to return from this altogether extraordinary
trip without seeing the automobile under adverse conditions. Our
experiences in the sand were no fault of the machine; the
responsibility rested with us for placing it in a predicament from
which it could not extricate itself, and if, in the heat of the
moment and the sand, I said anything derogatory to the faithful
machine, I express my regrets. Now, it seems, I shall have the
pleasure of observing some of the eccentricities of the horseless
carriage. What seems to be the matter?" and the Professor peered
vaguely underneath.
"Something wrong with the spark."
"Bless me! Can you fix it?"
"I think so. Now, if you will be good enough to turn that crank."
"With pleasure. What an extraordinary piece of mechanism.--"
"A little faster."
"The momentum--"
"A little faster."
"Very heavy fly-wheel--"
"Just a little faster."
"Friction--mechanics--overcome--"
"Now as hard as you can, Professor."
"Exercise, muscle, but hard work. The spark,--is it there? Whew!"
and the Professor stopped, exhausted.
It was the repetition of those experiences that sobered the
Professor and led him to speak of his work at home, which he
feared he was neglecting. At the last stop he stood in a pool of
water and turned the crank without saying anything that would bear
repetition.
While touring, look out for glass, nails, and the country
mechanic,--of the three, the mechanic can do the largest amount of
damage in a given time. His well-meant efforts may wreck you; his
mistakes are sure to. The average mechanic along the route is a
veritable bull in a china shop,--once inside your machine, and you
are done for. He knows it all, and more too. He once lived next to
a man who owned a naphtha launch; hence his expert knowledge; or
he knew some one who was blown up by gasoline, therefore he is
qualified. Look out for him; his look of intelligence is deception
itself. His readiness with hammer and file means destruction; if
he once gets at the machine, give it to him as a reward and a
revenge for his misdirected energy, and save time by walking.
Even the men from the factory make sad mistakes; they may locate
troubles, but in repairing they will forget, and leave off more
things than the floor will hold.
At Batavia we put in new batteries, repacked the pump, covered the
coil with patent leather, so that neither oil nor water could
affect it, and put on a new chain. Without saying a word, the
bright and too willing mechanic who was assisting, mainly by
looking on, took the new chain into his shop and cut off a link. A
wanton act done because he "thought the chain a little too long,"
and not discovered until the machine had been cramped together,
every strut and reach shortened to get the chain in place;
meanwhile the factory was being vigorously blamed for sending out
chains too short. During it all the mechanic was discreetly
silent, but the new link on the vise in the shop betrayed him
after the harm was done.
The run from Batavia to Canandaigua was made over roads that are
well-nigh perfect most of the way, but the machine was not working
well, the chain being too short. Going up stiff grades it was very
apparent something was wrong, for while the motor worked freely
the carriage dragged.
On the level and down grade everything went smoothly, but at every
up grade the friction and waste of power were apparent. Inspection
time and again showed everything clear, and it was not until late
in the afternoon the cause of the trouble was discovered. A
tell-tale mark on the surface of the fly-wheel showed friction
against something, and we found that while the wheel ran freely if
we were out of the machine, with the load in, and especially on up
grades with the chain drawing the framework closer to the running
gear, the rim of the wheel just grazed a bolt-head in a small brace
underneath, thereby producing the peculiar grating noise we had
heard and materially checking the motor. The shortening of the
struts and reaches to admit the short chain had done all this. As
the chain had stretched a little, we were able to lengthen slightly
the struts so as to give a little more clearance; it was also
possible to shift the brace about a quarter of an inch, and the
machine once more ran freely under all conditions.
Within twenty miles of Canandaigua the country is quite rolling
and many of the hills steep. Twice we were obliged to get out and
let the machine mount the grades, which it did; but it was
apparent that for the hills and mountains of New York the gearing
was too high.
On hard roads in a level country high gearing is all well enough,
and a high average speed can be maintained, but where the roads
are soft or the country rolling, a high gear may mean a very
material disadvantage in the long run.
It is of little use to be able to run thirty or forty miles on the
level if at every grade or soft spot it is necessary to throw in
the hill-climbing gear, thereby reducing the speed to from four to
six miles per hour; the resulting average is low. A carriage that
will take the hills and levels of New York at the uniform speed of
fifteen miles an hour will finish far ahead of one that is
compelled to use low gears at every grade, even though the latter
easily makes thirty or forty miles on the level.
The machine we were using had but two sets of gears,--a slow and a
fast. All intermediate speeds were obtained by throttling the
engine. The engine was easily governed, and on the level any speed
from the lowest to the maximum could be obtained without juggling
with the clutches; but on bad roads and in hilly localities
intermediate gears are required if one is to get the best results
out of a motor. As the gasoline motor develops its highest
efficiency when it is running at full speed, there should be
enough intermediate gears so the maximum speed may be maintained
under varying conditions. As the road gets heavy or the grades
steep, the drop is made from one gear down to another; but at all
times and under all conditions--if there are enough intermediate
gears--the machine is being driven with the motor running fast.
With only two gears where roads or grades are such that the high
gear cannot be used, there is nothing to do but drop to the low,
--from thirty miles an hour to five or six,--and the engine runs as
if it had no load at all. American roads especially demand
intermediate gears if best results are to be attained, the
conditions change so from mile to mile.
Foreign machines are equipped with from three to five
speed-changing gears in addition to the spark control, and many
also have throttles for governing the speed of the engine.
Going at full speed down a long hill about two miles out of
Canandaigua, we discovered that neither power nor brakes had any
control over the machine. The large set-screws holding the two
halves of the rear-axle in the differential gears had worked loose
and the right half was steadily working out. As both brakes
operated through the differential, both were useless, and the
machine was beyond control. An obstacle or a bad turn at the
bottom meant disaster; happily the hill terminated in a level
stretch of softer road, which checked the speed and the machine
came slowly to a stop.
The sensation of rushing down hill with power and brakes
absolutely detached is peculiar and exhilarating. It is quite like
coasting or tobogganing; the excitement is in proportion to the
risk; the chance of safety lies in a clear road; for the time
being the machine is a huge projectile, a flying mass, a ton of
metal rushing through space; there is no sensation of fear, not a
tremor of the nerves, but one becomes for the moment exceedingly
alert, with instantaneous comprehension of the character of the
road; every rut, stone, and curve are seen and appreciated; the
possibility of collision is understood, and every danger is
present in the mind, and with it all the thrill of excitement
which ever accompanies risk.
During the entire descent the Professor was in blissful ignorance
of the loss of control. To him the hill was like many another that
we had taken at top speed; but when he saw the rear wheel far out
from the carriage with only about twelve inches of axle holding in
the sleeve, and understood the loss of control through both chain
and brakes, his imagination began to work, and he thought of
everything that could have happened and many things that could
not, but he remarked philosophically,--
"Fear is entirely a creature of the imagination. We are not afraid
of what will happen, but of what may. We are all cowards until
confronted with danger; most men are heroes in emergencies."
Detaching a lamp from the front of the carriage, repairs were
made. A block of wood and a fence rail made a good jack; the gear
case was opened up, the axle driven home, and the set-screws
turned down tight; but it was only too apparent that the screws
would work loose again.
The next morning we pulled out both halves of the axle and found
the key-ways worn so there was a very perceptible play. As the
keys were supposed to hold the gears tight and the set-screws were
only for the purpose of keeping the axle from working out, it was
idle to expect the screws to hold fast so long as the keys were
loose in the ways; the slight play of the gears upon the axles
would soon loosen screws, in fact, both were found loose, although
tightened up only the evening before.
As it had become apparent that the machine was geared too high for
the hills of New York, it seemed better to send it into the shop
for such changes as were necessary, rather than spend the time
necessary to make them in the one small machine shop at
Canandaigua.
Furthermore the Professor's vacation was drawing to a close; he
had given himself not to exceed ten days, eight had elapsed.
"I feel that I have exhausted the possibilities and eccentricities
of automobiling; there is nothing more to learn; if there is
anything more, I do not care to know it. I am inclined to accept
the experience of last night as a warning; as the fellow who was
blown up with dynamite said when he came down, 'to repeat the
experiment would be no novelty.'"
And so the machine was loaded on the cars, side-tracked on the
way, and it was many a day before another start could be made from
Buffalo.
It cannot be too often repeated that it is a mistake to ever lose
sight of one's machine during a tour; it is a mistake to leave it
in a machine shop for repairs; it is a mistake to even return it
to the place of its creation; for you may be quite sure that
things will be left undone that should be done, and things done
that should not be done.
It requires days and weeks to become acquainted with all the
peculiarities and weaknesses of an automobile, to know its strong
points and rely upon them, to appreciate its failings and be
tender towards them. After you have become acquainted, do not risk
the friendship by letting the capricious thing out of your sight.
It is so fickle that it forms wanton attachments for every one it
meets,--for urchins, idlers, loafers, mechanics, permits them all
sorts of familiarities, so that when, like a truant, it comes
wandering back, it is no longer the same, but a new creature,
which you must learn again to know.
It is monotonously lonesome running an automobile across country
alone; the record-breaker may enjoy it, but the civilized man does
not; man is a gregarious animal, especially in his sports; one
must have an audience, if an audience of only one.
The return of the Professor made it necessary to find some one
else. There was but one who could go, but she had most
emphatically refused; did not care for the dust and dirt, did not
care for the curious crowds, did not care to go fast, did not care
to go at all. To overcome these apparently insurmountable
objections, a semi-binding pledge was made to not run more than
ten or twelve miles per hour, and not more than thirty or forty
miles per day,--promises so obviously impossible of fulfillment on
the part of any chauffeur that they were not binding in law. We
started out well within bounds, making but little over forty miles
the first day; we wound up with a glorious run of one hundred and
forty miles the last day, covering the Old Sarnia gravel out of
London, Ontario, at top speed for nearly seventy miles.
For five weeks to a day we wandered over the eastern country at
our own sweet will, not a care, not a responsibility,--days
without seeing newspapers, finding mail and telegrams at
infrequent intervals, but much of the time lost to the world of
friends and acquaintances.
Touring on an automobile differs from coaching, posting,
railroading, from every known means of locomotion, in that you are
really lost to the world. In coaching or posting, one knows with
reasonable certainty the places that can be made; the itinerary is
laid out in advance, and if departed from, friends can be notified
by wire, so that letters and telegrams may be forwarded.
With an automobile all is different. The vagaries of the machine
upset every itinerary. You do not know where you will stop,
because you cannot tell when you may stop. If one has in mind a
certain place, the machine may never reach it, or, arriving, the
road and the day may be so fine you are irresistibly impelled to
keep on. The very thought that letters are to be at a certain
place at a certain date is a bore, it limits your progress,
fetters your will, and curbs your inclinations. One hears of
places of interest off the chosen route; the temptation to see
them is strong exactly in proportion to the assurances given that
you will go elsewhere.
The automobile is lawless; it chafes under restraint; will follow
neither advice nor directions. Tell it to go this way, it is sure
to go that; to turn the second corner to the right, it will take
the first to the left; to go to one city, it prefers another; to
avoid a certain road, it selects that above all others.
It is a grievous error to tell friends you are coming; it puts
them to no end of inconvenience; for days they expect you and you
do not come; their feeling of relief that you did not come is
destroyed by your appearance.
The day we were expected at a friend's summer home at the sea-side
we spent with the Shakers in the valley of Lebanon, waiting for a
new steering-head. Telegrams of inquiry, concern, and consolation
reached us in our retreat, but those who expected us were none the
less inconvenienced.
Then, too, what business have the dusty, grimy, veiled, goggled,
and leathered party from the machine among the muslin gowns, smart
wraps, and immaculate coverings of the conventional house party;
if we but approach, they scatter in self-protection.
From these reflections it is only too plain that the automobile
--like that other inartistic instrument of torture, the grand piano
--is not adapted to the drawing-room. It is not quite at home in
the stable; it demands a house of its own. If the friend who
invites you to visit him has a machine, then accept, for he is a
brother crank; but if he has none, do not fill his generous soul
with dismay by running up his drive-way, sprinkling its spotless
white with oil, leaving an ineradicable stain under the
porte-cochere, and frightening his favorite horses into fits as
you run into the stable.
But it is delightful to go through cities and out-of-the-way
places, just leaving cards in a most casual manner upon people one
knows. We passed through many places twice, some places three
times, in careering about. Each time we called on friends;
sometimes they were in, sometimes out; it was all so casual,--a
cup of tea, a little chat, sometimes without shutting down the
motor,--the briefest of calls, all the more charming because
brief,--really, it was strange.