ADVENTURES WITH A FLIVVER
Townsend’s flivver, as he said himself, was slow but unsure and they
were three hours reaching Orange Lake. Here, at a pleasant summer
boarding house, Mr. and Mrs. Ripley alighted. It was funny to see with
what an air of sober complacency Townsend drove up the winding private
roadway and saying, “whoa,” stopped in front of a spacious veranda
filled with summer boarders.
“Make it talk for them,” whispered Pee-wee.
“I’ll make it say, ‘hurray,’” said Townsend. He leaned far out of the
car, rocking it somewhat, and it undoubtedly did utter an uncanny
response which sounded for all the world like that joyous call.
“Make it sit up and beg, can’t you?” asked a man in a hammock.
“I’ve got an inspiration,” whispered Pee-wee; “let’s make it talk and
take up collections wherever we go. Will you? We can get a lot of money
that way. I’ll pass around my hat now, shall I, and then we’ll make it
say ‘good-by.’”
“We don’t want any money,” said Townsend; “you’ll spoil all the fun. It
talks for love, like you. It doesn’t talk for money. I wonder if I could
borrow a hatchet while I’m here?” he asked aloud.
“You going to chop down your little Ford?” the genial occupant of the
hammock inquired.
It seemed that a hatchet was the only implement which would reach a
certain bolt and act as a screw-driver.
“Maybe it won’t talk any more if you do that,” Pee-wee warned.
“Oh, yes, it’ll sing for a while now,” said Townsend. And so it did, a
weird oriental tune, for eight or ten miles till they stopped to get
gasoline. This was at a little supply station in a shack and the
proprietor of the establishment could not be found. After wandering
about, and whistling and calling, Townsend decided to go on to the next
place.
“Have we got enough gas?” Pee-wee asked concernedly.
“I don’t know where the next place is,” Townsend said. “What do you mean
by enough?”
As Pee-wee never had enough of anything himself he was not able, when
put to it, to say just what was meant by that word.
“I don’t intend to take the seat up to find out,” said Townsend,
“because there isn’t any plug in the tank and every time I move the seat
straws from inside of it get into the gas supply and come out through
the carburetor. I’ve lost a lot of straw that way.”
By a series of gymnastic contortions, Townsend rocked the car and a
faint, distant splashing was heard below them. “We’ve got a couple of
gallons or so, I guess. Do you want to get out and pick up the rear
license plate?”
“How do you know it fell off?”
“It always falls off when I do that,” said Townsend.
They were in a pleasant country now, above Newburgh. Here the road runs
between the Hudson and the Wallkill Rivers. The car jogged faithfully
along, keeping up a sort of clanking lullaby except when it went over
bad places when it raised its voice into a medley of squeaks and rattles
like a traveling jazz band. Nothing seemed to surprise Townsend. He knew
all the noises and the mysterious depths whence they emanated.
They passed several rural garages, but at each one Townsend rocked the
car and received a faint, splashing reassurance from below the seat that
the gas was holding out. “We’ll get some at the next place,” he would
say.
So they traveled without mishap or adventure until dusk. Slowly the
wooded hills changed color, patches of crimson lingered on the summits
and faded and died away, leaving the heights in the solemn hue of the
deepening twilight. And then the gathering darkness. It seemed as if the
sturdy, clamorous, little flivver were all alone in the world, rattling
merrily on as the mantle of night fell.
The road wound like a ribbon through the dim country where miles and
miles of vineyards border the way. High in the air a solitary bird
soared through the darkening sky, imparting a suggestion of wildness and
loneliness to the scene.
Lights appeared in the few habitations which they passed. The voices of
frogs could be heard in ponds and brooks, sending up their outlandish
greetings to the night.
Somewhere in the vast stillness an owl was hooting. It was the wistful
hour of homesickness, if one is given to that, for in those solemn,
changing hours nature seems to be drawing her cloak about her and
withdrawing from human company. The merry little Ford rattled along, up
hill and down dale and around bends, and was pretty good company. Say
what you will, a Ford is a pretty good sport.