Life — September 3, 1925 — page 28: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

* LIPE * The Sunday Auto Ride foot at a time. Mr. Pipp followed in a series of short, jerky jumps, finally reaching the turnpike, only to have the traffic cop blow his whistle and set his “Stop” signal against him at the very last second. “He's a hot traffic cop,” scoffed Pipp. “Sound asleep! Sound asleep!” Presently the signal changed and Mr. Pipp shot his flivver into the turn- pike, a little disturbed by the roar of so many cars at his right, left and rear. As a sedan swished by he could have sworn he heard his left rear fender struck. A sound of crumpling metal behind him on the right smote his ear. He leaned out, pop-cyed, to see where it came from and inadvertently veered his to the left, where a front fender was hit and dented by a passing beach wagon. It seemed to Amos he heard ten thousand horns blow. “Amos!” cried Mrs. Pipp. out where you're driving!” “Damn it!” barked Mr. Pipp. “What happened ?” “You swerved over and that car bent your front fender.” “I thought somethin’ hit us behind,” said Pipp, looking extremely disturbed. “So did I, Popper,” chirped Patricia Pipp. “Can't we stop and see?” asked Pipp. “Not in this traffic.” declared Mrs Pipp with finality. “You'd better keep going straight ahcad until we get out of this. “Phew!” from Mr. Pipp. The farther the Pipps went the more densely surrounded by motor cars they The family began to feel hot, uncomfortable, irritable and The next mile was negotiated “Look became. sticky, mean, in something like forty-five minutes * flat. “What time is it asked Prunella. ” Mr. Pipp looked at his watch. “Two o'clock,” he replied, blinking. “Ain't we goin’ to the beach to-day, Popper?” asked the Pipp infant. “Shut that kid’s trap!” commanded Mr. Pipp, inadvertently swerving the car to the right as a limousine came abreast. There was a sound of crunch- ing wood and snapping metal. The Pipps felt themselves severely jolted. Mr. Pipp stepped on the brake. A large man with a mustache that seemed to have a spread of at least now, Popper?” (Continued from page 6) eighteen inches from tip to tip vaulted from the limousine and shook his fist at Mr. Pipp. “Whotinellsamattah?” he bellowed. Something about the stranger's very manner made Mr. Pipp feel in the wrong. He made no answer. Pup: SoMFRopy’S TRYING TO INVEIGLE ME INTO A TRAP. “It’s fools like you that menace the lives of every decent man who operates a car on the highway roared the limousine owner. “Why the devil the state licenses such idiots to drive is more than I can see.” “Listen,” meckly blurted Amos. “Speak up to him, Amos!” demanded Mrs. Pipp. “Why do you allow him to talk to you that way?” “Fresh thing!” blurted Prunella Pipp, looking her haughtiest. “Bah!” roared the stranger, jumping back into his limousine, drawing the front wheel out of the Pipp flivver’s splintered running-board and going on his way before the Pipps could survey the damage done to their new car and arrive at a proper sense of indignation. “Get his number,” cried Ma Pipp, gazing after the limousine as it rolled off in a whirl of dust. “It was C-68701,”" chirped Patricia. “No, it was X-7705," insisted Prun- ella. “I thought it had three 5's in it,” said Mrs. Pipp. A car behind gave the Pipp flivver a violent boost. The tooting grew louder; Mr. Pipp decided there was nothing to do but move, but he was very reluctant about it. He had an anarchistic look about the gills. Mrs. ipp was breathing violently. The Pipp infant was crying. Mr. Pipp stepped on the gas and made something like three miles an hour for a distance of about two hundred yards, when he ran into the traffic ahead again, “Popper,” whimpered the Pipp infant, “why don't we go to the beach? Amos turned and glared at the “What time is it now, Amos Mrs. Pipp in a wearied tone. “Four o'clock,” replied Amos, “The tide'll be out,” complained Prunella sadly. Just beyond this there was another tic-up. When the Pipps reached the next cross strect they found a Detour sign closing the main turnpike and shunting traffic off into a narrow crossroad, For what seemed hours the boiling, smoking cavalcade of motor cars rumbled on. Motorcyclists with weird-looking young ladies in side cars squirmed in and out. Here and there a buttered-popcorn wagon drawn by a wilting horse threaded its way. The very atmosphere reeked with bad (Continued on page 31) comicbooks.com