Adventure Magazine Cover, October 1911 — page 32: what you’re looking at

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

978 gether, weather-worn and well past fifty, with a lean, studious face and the unsus- pecting expression of a little child; and his address was a blend of the authority of the scholar and the diffidence of the recluse. ‘Dere is somet’ing wrong mit der mechan- ism? Yes?= ‘“‘T’m sure I don’t know,” exclaimed Car- melita, frankly puzzled. “No doubt the fault is not in the automobile, but in the chauffeur. Do you know anything about motors?”’ He shook his head with a gesture that seemed, nevertheless, to place himself at her disposal. Carmelita was already out of the car. She had pulled a brown linen apron from beneath the seat and was rattling on with a glibness that seemed to perplex, and yet amuse, the old man. ‘“‘T know it isn’t the gasoline, for the tank was filled this morning, and I oiled the en- gine not three minutes ago. It can’t be the battery—it’s a new one. Thank goodness, it’s not a puncture! I suppose,” she con- tinued, rummaging distractedly in the tool- chest, ‘that I’ll now have the joy of decid- ing whether I need a jack-plier or a car- bureter jet-spanner, unless you happen to know either of them by sight. I’m sure I don’t.. If it’s the spark, I may as well pre- pare to spend the night. It’s as mean to adjust as the tension on a sewing-machine —the more you fool with it, the worse it gets.” She was passing in front of the car as she spoke and, unconsciously and with no par- ticular hope of success, caught hold of the starting-handle, pulled it over to the resist- ing point and released it sharply. In- stantly, as though anxious to justify itself by prompt obedience, the engine started its re- assuring “‘chug! chug!” Carmelita stared at it helplessly, looked questioningly a moment at the puzzled old man, and then a whoop of joy and derision echoed among the hills and, laughing un- controllably, she threw herself down at the side of the road. The man stared at her, an amused smile on his kind old face. ‘“‘I switched off the engine on that hill, and became so absorbed in the scenery I for- got I had to switch it on again!” she ex- plained, enjoying her own confusion. ‘Dot is der vay, ven you are not used to machinery. Dere is alvays somet’ings you forget to do.” He passed his- hand affec- Adventure tionately over the tonneau. new one, not?” ‘Oh, very new; I’ve had it only a fort- night.” ‘Und you go like dis—alone?”’ ‘To-day is the first time I’ve run the car myself. Icouldn’t stand the chauffeur who was teaching me! He was toocautious. At least, if I’m to break my neck, I’ll do it my own way.” She looked at the dusty, tired figure, standing hat in hand at the side of road, and on one of the sudden impulses which it was her boast always to follow, asked pleasantly: “Can’t I give you a lift? Were you going my way?” Theold man’s eyessearched hers shrewdly. There was no hint of patronage in the cor- dial voice; the beauty of Carmelita’s democ- racy lay in the fact that it was never assumed. It was part of her, bred in the bone, an inheritance from the good-natured Terry, whose bucket-shop had been the rendezvous for many a frayed-cuff inventor and collarless prospector who had since made his pile. As the old man stowed away his odd collection of bundles and German scientific magazines, she added casually: “T’m glad I happened along. You must have been loaded like a pack-mule, and I guess it’s pretty hot walking.” ten miles neither of them spoke. Carmelita, intent on doing herself and her instructor justice, bent her atten- tion to her car and the road in front of her. The old man sat quietly, with thoughtful eyes fixed on the gauntleted hands on the wheel before him. On a long, level stretch of road that ran between oak and hickory trees, with now and then an ancient walnut, or some giant sycamore to break the ruddy masses of crimson and gold and leathery brown, Carmelita slackened her speed. Off in the distance undulated a line of purple hills, that wonderful, elusive purple that seems peculiarly set aside for late October and November days, melting into the blue hollow of the valley. “Tt’s beautiful, isn’t it? mean.” He nodded his head thoughtfully. “‘Wun- derschén! Ten years I haf lived there und nefer I grow tired of it.” Carmelita’s eyes questioned him, and he continued. “Look along my finger! Dot middle hill vot raises its head higher than der rest of dem. Ve HIS only reply was a nod, and for All this, I CO “Tt’s a brand- MICLOOKS ©