The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 149: what you’re looking at

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

SOLID like the morning after for a couple of hours, so you can see what Ole was toting around with him the rest of the afternoon. By night the news of Ole’s exploits be- gan to spread around. He rode in on the machine about eight o’clock, and the wel- come the crowd gave him would make a victorious general’s return home look like a pair of deuces. Ole was real tickled; thought he must have done something downright clever. But for all the kidding they handed him— and some of it was pretty crude stuff—the friendly grin never faded from his homely face. After a while he left, but came back in about ten minutes or so, pushing the boat along; she weighed close to three hundred pounds, too. “ What’s the matter now, Ole?” asked one of the boys. ‘She stop on me,” sighed the owner. ‘“‘ Ay tank she broke dis time, sure.” We held a consultation to diagnose the case, but found no serious complications. The gasoline was shut off, that was all; and Ole hadn’t had bean enough to turn it on. The motor ran a few hundred yards on the gas in the carb, and when that was sucked dry, quite naturally died. You might be surprised that Ole knew enough to run a motorcycle at all, but the actual operation is simple enough for a seven-year-old boy to master. ‘¢ Some one’s played a dirty trick on you, Ole,” Jenks told him. ‘‘ One of these here scallywags shut off your gas; turn it on and she’ll run as good as ever.”’ But even while Ole was standing by the machine somebody shifted the magneto cables, so that each was hitched to the wrong cylinder. That little trick will fool even an experienced rider for a short time. Poor Ole cranked and cranked, while the mob stood around donating advice. Finally Bud Adams—he had shifted the cables— said: “Listen here, Ole; you don’t say the right words. When a motor won’t start, you have to shut your eyes and chant: “ Keney, meeney, miney, mo; Tickle the carb and away she'll go.” Ole was beginning to get just a little leary of free advice, but there wasn’t any- thing he wouldn’t try once. So he shut his innocent blue lamps and warbled: ‘“ Aney, maney, miney, mo; Tickle de carb an’ avay she go,” real hopefully. While his eyes were closed, IVORY. 523 Bud reached down and shifted the cables back. Ole gave a kick at the starting crank, and off she purred like a sweet little kitten. ‘““What_did I tell you, Ole?” said Bud. ‘““T guess I’m the guy that put the mote in motor.” Ole was considerably impressed; you could see that, but he didn’t have anything x say; just straddled his bus and plugged Next day we heard that a cop on Main Street sent in a hurry call for the bug wagon, after watching Ole trying to start his boat by the eeney, meeney, ef cetera, method. Nothing seemed too crude for the poor simp to bite on. One afternoon a lad was working on his motor in front of the shop with Ole stand- ing near. All of a sudden he yells out so everybody heard: “Say, Ole, go and ask Jim Conway for his left-hand monkey wrench, will ya? And hurry!” “T lent it to Jake Brown, over to the Empire Garage,” growls Conway. “I wish you’d go and get it.” And off trots Ole to the Empire. Jake sent him to the Pyramid Garage, and the boys there told him it was at Daley’s pumping shop. After that we lost track of Ole’s wander- ings, but he went chasing all around town, with the left-handed wrench always keep- ing a lap to the good. As time went on Ole began to develop into quite a speed fan. By chance he had got hold of a freak motor. It’s a peculiar thing about gas engines. A factory will run through a lot of a thou- sand motors, all exactly alike, and built up of parts that don’t vary the hundredth of a hair. You’d naturally think that all the assembled motors would be identical, but not a bit of it. Of course, most of ’em will be about the same, but here and there may be one that’s not worth a plugged penny. — And, on the other hand, a few may be so fast that you’re ready to swear they’re racing motors, and not stock at all. Ole Swensen had picked up one of these last boats. Travel? Why there wasn’t a stock machine in the region, of our make or any other, that had a look-in against her! It didn’t take Ole very long to discover that his bus could walk right along when you gave her the gas. His idea of bliss was to open the throttle till it jammed, and CORMMICLO® <=) (C@)