Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
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F
<div class="poem">
<p>"You the young lady that got stuck in that hole by Adolph Zolzac's?"
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<div class="poem">
<p>"Yes he is, literally. He must in his glorious career have given chronic indigestion to thousands of people—shortened their lives by years. That's wholesale murder. If I were the authorities here, I'd be indulgent to the people who only murder one or two people, but imprison this cook for life. Really! I mean it!"
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<div class="poem">
<p>"That's the way to get on. The rest of this town is afraid of new things. 'Member when I suggested we all chip in on a dynamo with a gas engine and have electric lights? The hicks almost died of nervousness."
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<div class="poem">
<p>Through a tiny hole in the plate of the distributor he dripped two drops of oil—only two drops. "I guess maybe that's what it needed. You might try her now, and see how she runs," he said mildly.
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<div class="poem">
<p>She had sent her friends a list of the places at which she would be likely to stop. The message was from Jeff Saxton, in Brooklyn. It brought to her mind the steady shine of his glasses—the most expensive glasses, with the very best curved lenses—as it demanded:
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<div class="poem">
<p>"A light-complected lady like me don't need so much color, you notice my hair is black, but I'm light, really, Pete Liverquist says I'm a blonde brunette, gee, he certainly is killing that fellow, oh, he's a case, he sure does like to hear himself talk, my! there's Old Man Walters, he runs the telephone exchange here, I heard he went down to St. Cloud on Number 2, but I guess he couldn't of, he'll be yodeling for friend soup and a couple slabs of moo, I better beat it, I'll say so, so long."
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<div class="poem">
<p>Milt turned again and came toward them, but slowly; and after he had drawn up even and switched off the engine, he snatched off his violent plaid cap and looked apologetic.
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<div class="poem">
<p>Her father, out of much thought and a solid ignorance about all of motoring beyond the hiring of chauffeurs and the payment of bills,<br />
suggested, "Uh, dolly, have you looked to see if these, uh—— Is the carburetor all right?"
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<div class="poem">
<p>She drove on, and prayed that he would of himself leave his uncharitable hosts at the next town.
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<div class="poem">
<p>"Stuck?" he inquired, not very intelligently. "How much is Adolph charging you?"
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<div class="poem">
<p>"Oh, that's all right," breezily. "Something might go wrong. Say, is this poetry book——"
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<div class="poem">
<p>Claire roused from her damp doze and sighed, "Well, I must get busy and get the car out of this."
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<div class="poem">
<p>"But suppose he'd had a revolver himself?" wailed Claire.
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<div class="poem">
<p>From the second step the night clerk looked down at her as though she were a specimen that ought to be pinned on the corks at once, and he said loudly, "No, ma'am. Neither of 'em. Got no rooms vacant with bawth, or bath either! Not but what we got 'em in the house. This is an up-to-date place. But one of 'm's took, and the other has kind of been out of order, the last three-four months."
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<div class="poem">
<p>She had discovered, too, that she could adventure. No longer was she haunted by the apprehension that had whispered to her as she had left Minneapolis. She knew a thrill when she hailed—as though it were a passing ship—an Illinois car across whose dust-caked back was a banner "Chicago to the Yellowstone." She experienced a new sensation of common humanness when, on a railway paralleling the wagon road for miles, the engineer of a freight waved his hand to her, and tooted the whistle in greeting.
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