Page:Motoring Magazine and Motor Life July 1915.djvu/7

, 1915. choice.

There was a sudden hush. The boys said nothing. But: “What do you know about it, and where did you find out?” said their round eyes.

Where did you find out? You had not the slightest idea. You were always sure that when you looked through the back pages of a magazine, you were hunting for indestructible hose. You were very sure that in the pink sheet you looked up only the baseball score. When you drove out with friends you never bothered about the working of the thing. And here you were ready to talk storage batteries with the best of them!

So you talked. Whereupon it developed that it would take much studying to find out what car was worthy of the fifteen years’ wait. Anyway, you were in no hurry; you could spend a fortnight or a month before making up your mind, before even telling any one that you were going to “get one.”

Alas for your blindness, you who have never dealt with automobile agents. Grayson told some one that he bought your five acres. And some one told some one else, and that some one else asked “Cash?” in the hearing of an automobile agent. And the automobile agent said: “Who?” and jotted down your name. And whenever one automobile agent says “Who?” and jots down a name, every automobile agent within fifty miles feels a jerking in his right hand, and if he just puts a pencil into it and lets it write, it will jot down that same name, as everybody who has had business with an automobile agent knows perfectly well.

So next morning early a dashing machine rolls into your yard and is put through its tricks. John climbs into the wheel seat–pedals too high for John–a mere trifle–pedals can be shortened, two or three inches. Albert next tries them–pedals too low for Albert. The agent smiles–easiest thing in the world, you know; pedals can be built up, oh, fully two or three inches. But just feel the seat springs, get in and bounce, as much as you want to. And the centralized control and the self-starter. And just look at the way the engine picks up.

You follow, fascinated. The pedal question bothers, a little. Can the same pedals be cut down and built up? Obviously not. But the agent talks and you forget to worry. More than that, you believe him. The morning is his, and surely he makes the most of it.

Every other car on the market is junk. You begin to wonder how it is that the poor tin things don’t go to pieces the very first time the gears are shifted. But then, perhaps they do, perhaps that is why Judge Smith brought his new car into the garage the week before. He said he had broken a spring on a rotten bridge. But of course….

The agent stays to dinner and you glance out at his car with a proprietary air. You are perfectly satisfied, perfectly. Until next day.

The second agent is a dapper, cheery fellow. You like his face. Too bad he advertises the worst car on the market. The very worst. Didn’t yesterday’s agent tell you so? The brakes always refuse to work in the tightest places–always.

The dapper agent hopes that he is the first to see you. No? Oh, Ormsby was here? He smiles pityingly. At least he hopes, for your own sake, that you have not committed yourself.

You growl a bit. No, you have not committed yourself. But Ormsby’s car looked pretty good to you. Does yet.

But the carburetor–had you noticed the carburetor?

No, come to think of it, you hadn’t noticed the carburetor.

Well, if you had not noticed the carburetor… of course if you don’t really care what sort of carburetor you do get….

You are nettled. You watch his car go through its tricks with no enthusiasm whatever. It is all very well, full-floating axle and oil economy, you will catch him when it comes to brakes. But he forestalls you.

“And take a look at the brakes. Finest on the market. Here, let me show you.”

It is a statement by Barney Oldfield. You realize that Barney would long ago have perished if it were not for that particular brand of brakes. Your faith in yesterday wanes a little. You ask to have the car put through its tricks once again. Slowly it begins to dawn upon you that this and no other is the car you have always wanted. You consent to take a ride; you call in the orchard for the boys; you stay out two hours, and come back enchanted. Your quest is at an end.

Which happens every day for a week or fortnight. Your neighbors’ plowing is quite finished; your neighbors are beginning to harrow. But then, your teams need the rest, you argue it out with your conscience.

In the end you buy a car of which you had never thought before, you pay $500 more than you expected to pay, and the crowd of agents departs with dire prophecies as to what will happen when you are doing forty on a crowded boulevard some evening and your lights go out suddenly. Once more you are at peace–so you think.

The boys learn to drive. You are amazed. After two days of it Paul still zig-zags all over the road. You ask him, trying to conceal your disdain, to trade seats with you. Did not you once ride a bicycle? And did not every agent tell you it was easy as anything for any one who ever rode a bicycle? You try it confidently. A corner? A bridge? What of it?

You get off rather easily–considering. And ever after you are very kind and gentle toward Paul. For it is not every son who will take upon his own innocent head the family’s blame for a smashed light and a jammed fender.

Then comes the day you first venture to ask the neighbors out. You phone the Careys–the Careys, to be sure, own a motor vehicle of a sort, but even you used to smile when they spoke of it as a car. You are piqued to find the Careys unresponsive. They are ever so much obliged–but they’ve been out over the road in their own car, many times. And motoring tires them.

“I should say it would!” you say ironically, and horrify your wife by not hanging up the receiver on your words. You do find company; the Grayson girls have been dying to have you get a car. One of them climbs into the front seat with John, the other sits with Paul, and the mother in the back. You perch on the door and refuse to change places with anybody. You are perfectly comfortable–was not one of your reasons for buying the car the fact that “the body springs make the upholstering a luxury, not a necessity?” Your only concern is that your agent should not see you. If he does, he will be up in the morning to bully you into trading for a seven-passenger.

The rains come on and you take to walking. Because, of course, a car will never be the same after being wet. And you still admonish your boys to refrain from racing, each time they leave the yard. There is nothing worse than racing. Your car is still in cotton wool.

But one day Judge Smith’s son goes whizzing past your gate, you’d hate to say how many miles an hour. And a moment later Albert drives in, grinning happily, and going slowly, too slowly for a clear conscience. You glance at the hood and find the water boiling. Albert reddens. You should scold, of course. So you say, eagerly:

“Did he beat you?”

“Huh!” says Albert, and grins again.

WhisThis [sic] is the end of your car’s newness. After that you let the dog ride on the seat and forget to lie awake listening for auto thieves. A whole week goes by with the lamps unpolished. And then one day you rise to find it raining, and you call to John to come to the garage and show you how to put down the rain curtains.