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 about my own father, but he's afraid of an automobile, and spoils anything like a trip by his remarks. He's always saying, "We must remember that shed; Albert and I could easily push her in that shed"; or, "That's a very handy-looking little machine shop; I wonder if it's on the telephone? Setzer and Hoffman"—and then he keeps repeating Setzer and Hoffman for the next half hour for fear he might forget it. And when it comes to a choice of routes, he has a pathetic desire to follow the trolley! That's papa for you—as an automobilist! And, like all those people who borrow trouble, he has found it by the barrelful—and once had to sleep out all night in the woods.

So there was papa, looking perfectly superb in his brass cuirass and theater boots, marching up and down, jingling like the fire irons, and trying to find a million reasons why we shouldn't take the Dauntless. He wanted to get the horses out, and drive, and grew crosser and crosser as I told him he was a great big coward, and the disgrace of the family. What