John Henry Smith

by W. W. Jacobs

  ENTRY NO. XV

  THE AUTO AND THE BULL

  I started to tear out what I wrote last night, but on second thoughtwill let it remain. Its perusal in future years may amuse me. I will nowresume the trail of Woodvale happenings.

  The touring car won from her father by Miss Harding is a massive andbeautiful machine. Luckily I am familiar with the mechanism of thisparticular make, and, as a consequence, am called in for advice when anytrifling question arises. Harding scorns a professional chauffeur.

  "Next to running one of these road engines," he declares, "the most funis in pulling them apart to see how they are made. I would as soon hirea man to eat for me as to shawf one of these choo-choo cars."

  Shortly after the big machine arrived Mr. Harding received a letter froma gentleman named Wilson, who is spending the summer at the Oak CliffGolf and Country Club. Wilson challenged him to come to Oak Cliff andplay golf, and to bring his family and a party of friends with him.Harding read the letter and laughed.

  "Here's my chance to win a game," he declared. "I can't beat the Kid,but I'll put it all over Wilson, you see if I don't."

  "Don't be too sure, papa," cautioned Miss Harding.

  "Wilson only started golf this year, and the only game he can beat me atis hanging up pictures," insisted Harding. "He stands six-foot-four, andweighs about one hundred and fifty. He looks like a pair of compasses,but he's all right, and we must go up and see him. Do you know the road,Smith?"

  "Every foot of it."

  "How far is it?"

  "About forty miles."

  "Good!" declared the magnate. "I'll wire Wilson we'll be thereto-morrow. We'll fill up the buzz wagon, take an early start, and put ina whole day at it. Smith shall be chief shawfer, and the Kid and I willtake turns when he gets tired."

  And we did. We started at seven o'clock with a party consisting of Mr.and Mrs. Harding, Miss Harding, Chilvers and his wife, Miss Dangerfield,Carter, and myself.

  There are many hills intervening and some stretches of indifferent road,but we figured we should make the run in two hours or less--but wedidn't.

  The few early risers gave us a cheer as we rolled away from the clubhouse and careened along the winding path which leads to the main road.The dew yet lay on the grass, and little lakes of fog hung over the fairgreen. It was a perfect spring morning, and the ozone-charged air had anexhilarating effect as we cleaved through it.

  Miss Harding was in the seat with me. I don't imagine this exactlypleased Carter, but it suited me to a dot. My lovely companion was insplendid spirits.

  "Now, Jacques Henri," she said to me in French, pretending that I was aprofessional chauffeur, "you are on trial. Unless you show markedproficiency we shall dispense with your services."

  "And if I do?" I inquired.

  "Then you may consider yourself retained," she laughed.

  "For life?" I boldly asked.

  I was so rattled at this rather broad insinuation that I swung out ofthe road and struck a rut, which gave the car a thorough shaking.

  "If that's the way you drive you will be lucky if you're not dischargedbefore we reach Oak Cliff," Miss Harding declared, and I did not darelook in her eyes to see if she were offended or not.

  For the following minutes I attended strictly to business. The steeringgear and other operating parts were a bit stiff on account of newness,but I soon acquired the "feel" of them, and we ate up the first tenmiles in seventeen minutes.

  We were following a sinuous brook toward its source, now skirting itsquiet depths along the edge of reedy meadows, and then chasing it intothe hills where it boiled and complained as it dashed and spumed amidrocks and boulders.

  "Hold on there, Smith!" shouted Harding from the rear seat in thetonneau.

  "Stop, Jacques Henri!" ordered my fair employer, and then I dared lookinto her smiling eyes.

  "I want to cut some of those willow switches," explained Harding, asthe car stopped.

  "What do you want of willow switches, John?" asked Mrs. Harding.

  "Going to make whistles out of them," he said, cutting several whichsprouted out from the edge of a spring. "Besides they're good things tokeep the flies from biting the tonneau. Smith runs so slow that they arestealing a ride."

  "Defend me," I said to my employer.

  "Jacques Henri is doing as he is told," declared Miss Harding.

  The spring was so inviting that we sampled its clear, cold water.Harding in the meantime whittling industriously on his willow switch.When he found that his whistle would "blow" he was as pleased as if hehad designed a new type of locomotive.

  A mile farther on we passed sedately through a country village andaroused the fleeting interest of the loungers in front of the combinedpost-office and news store. Then we entered a fine farming country, andfrom it plunged into a forest so dense that the overhanging boughsalmost spanned our pathway.

  Moss-covered stone walls lined both sides of the road. Everywhere was aprofusion of wild flowers, their petals brushing against our tires, andtheir flaunting reds, yellows, and blues brightening the gloom of theencompassing wood. A gray squirrel scampered across our path andimpudent chipmunks chattered to right and left. And then we came to asmall clearing filled with the wagons, tents and litter of a gipsy camp.