ADVENTURES WITH A FLIVVER—CONTINUED
Townsend would never sing any of these verses when Pee-wee wanted him
to. Pee-wee’s appetite for them soon became voracious. It was usually
when something went wrong (which was about every ten minutes) that
Townsend would edify his small companion with a new verse while making
some small repair or adjustment. At such trying moments his affection
for the car seemed to pass all bounds. His plaintive query would then
take wings and his loving soul burst into song, greatly to Pee-wee’s
amusement.
The flivver ran true to form to a point a mile or two south of Kingston,
keeping up a series of weird noises which Townsend called the _Orphans
of the Storm_ chorus, the uncanny sounds being caused by the flivver’s
recent exposure to the rain. He then predicted new squeaks which would
soon join in the chorus and they did.
They were stopped once by a rural official who was on a hay wagon, with
a vast load of hay as a pedestal for his dignity. Townsend, for the fun
of the thing, kept tooting his horn for the hay load to get out of the
way (a thing manifestly impossible), upon its failure to do which he
drove up close behind it to give Pee-wee a demonstration of how the Ford
could eat hay by drawing it in through the radiator openings.
The flivver’s mouth was about full of this luscious refreshment, the hay
streaming out of it, when the driver emerged over the mountainous load
and demanded to know, “Who told you you cud drive a car anyways, I’d
liketerknow.”
“No one had to tell us,” said Townsend; “we always knew it.”
Upon which, presto, a strand of green suspender was drawn aside, like a
boudoir curtain, revealing a coy and modest official badge on the
gingham shirt. Upon which, presto, out came Justice Dopett’s letter,
which drove the constable back into the fastness of his hay load again.
Townsend quietly got out and pulled the hay out of the radiator
openings, and that was the end of the incident.
It proved, however, but the suggestive prelude to a series of troubles.
Indeed, the nearer they approached to Kingston the farther away it
seemed. They had a puncture, then a blow-out, then a detour. And
scarcely had they regained the main road in the neighborhood of the New
Paltz and Highland Turnpike, when something happened which was beyond
Townsend’s ministrative powers; the Ford went wrong in a new and wholly
original place.
“That’s one thing I like about her,” he said, as he closed the hood
after a fruitless inspection. “When anything goes wrong that I can’t
fix, it always happens near a garage. This seems to be the fan belt.”
“Gee whiz, I should think you could fix that,” said Pee-wee, peering
down through the glassless windshield; “fan belts are simple.”
“They’re simple, Kid,” said Townsend; “and that’s where they’re
deceiving. You trust them and then they disappear. This one was as
simple as a little lamb, but it’s gone. I can’t fix a belt when it’s
gone. Do you want to trot back along the road and see if you see it
anywhere? If you find it tell it to come back—all is forgiven.”
Pee-wee went scout pace back along the road for a hundred yards or so
but there was no sign of the elusive fan belt. He picked up a dead snake
which had been run over and was so covered with dust that at first
glimpse he thought it might be the truant belt. He brought it back with
him on the supposition that it might possibly do.
“Couldn’t you use my scout belt either?” he asked.
“Your scout belt has important duties to perform, Kid. No, we’ll have to
go to the garage, much as I hate to do it. Now you begin to appreciate
this flivver. Where would you find another car—Cadillac, Pierce, I don’t
care what—that would break down almost in front of a garage? Look at
that garage not a hundred yards ahead of us! Some car, hey? Can you beat
her?”
Pee-wee could not see the logic of this, though indeed he had learned to
love Townsend’s Ford. It did seem to have a kind of mulish intelligence.
It must have been approaching noontime when Townsend, proudly
complacent, steered his hobo of a car majestically into the little
country garage which was but a few yards ahead of them, and tooted the
horn.
It may be added that the one thing about Townsend’s Ford which _always_
worked was the horn. Perhaps this was because it was not a Ford horn at
all. It was a Winton horn which he had adopted and it had a melodious,
commanding voice full of aristocratic richness. Gasoline boys, and
mechanics, storekeepers even, rushed pell-mell when they heard it as if
they expected to find the president of the United States waiting
without.
“What kind of a horn have you got connected with that car?” the
astonished proprietor of the little garage inquired as he made his
appearance from a yard in the rear.
“You mean what kind of a car have I got connected with this horn,” said
Townsend. “I’ve been using this car on this horn for a couple of years;
I suppose I’ll have to get a new car put on it soon. Have you got any
fan belts?”
“Your belt bust? Gosh, she’s steamin’ain’t she?”
“It left the party,” said Townsend.
“It’s a quitter,” said Pee-wee.
“Guess I can rig you up somethin’,” said the man. “Are you in any
hurry?”
“Tell him _no_,” Pee-wee whispered. He was by now so thoroughly in the
spirit of travelling that he began to dread reaching their destination.
He wanted to extend their journey, or the time of it, and be alone with
Townsend for another whole day. With all his ingenuity he had not
thought of any way of fixing this. But now the companionable flivver
seemed disposed to fix it for him.
From their last camping place they had averaged about three miles an
hour. It was altogether characteristic of Pee-wee that he had forgotten
all about his famous relay race and his unknown pal. Townsend was his
pal and he was having the time of his life and that was enough for him.