Mr. Clemens waved back to the driver, and then we turned and headed for the station house again. But we had not gone more than a few paces when a loud report rang out, and I almost instinctively dodged behind a wooden bench on the platform. Mr. Clemens gave a jump, but then stood looking around for the source of the sound. I peeked up over the top of the bench and called to him, “Get down, for God’s sake! For all you know, they’re shooting at you.”
“That didn’t sound like a gun to me,” he said, peering off toward the main street of the little town, Sure enough, the loud noise seemed to be coming from that direction—some sort of mechanical noise, I realized as I stood up, feeling rather foolish. The source of the sound became obvious as an outlandish contraption pulled into view: a bright green motorcar, the first I had ever seen actually running. The machine veered around the corner into the station at what I thought was an irresponsibly high speed, and came to an abrupt halt a short distance from where we stood. Ned Perkins had hopped off the seat of his rig and was holding his horse’s head, glowering at the machine, but the animal seemed to have calmed down quickly enough, after his initial startlement at the machine and its noise.
One of the two men in the front seat stood up and waved in our direction. “Clemens!” cried a familiar voice—I now recognized Sir Denis DeCoursey despite the large goggles and muffler obscuring his features. “Jolly good to see you here!”
“I’ll be damned,” muttered my employer, wrinkling his brows. “I’ve never ridden in one of those things before in my life. Looks like today’s the day, whether I feel like it or not.”
Sir Denis clambered up to the platform, grinning broadly. He shook hands with both of us, chattering all the while. “Sorry not to be here earlier,” he said. “The silly thing has its own mind about when it wants to run, especially when the weather’s a bit cool. But she’ll be fine, now she’s warmed up. Climb aboard, I’ll show you how she runs.”
“How fast does this thing go?” said Mr. Clemens, walking off alongside Sir Denis. For a moment, I was left standing on the platform. What little I knew about motorcars suggested that they were unreliable, and prone to spectacular smashups along the roadway. It was one thing to rip along at high speed on well-maintained railroad tracks, but quite another on a rutted country road, barely wide enough for two wagons to pass. On the other hand, it did look like an exciting way to get from one place to another, providing one did get there . . .
Then Mr. Clemens turned and looked back at me. “Come on, Wentworth, you’ll miss all the fun,” he said in a jocular tone. “Or would you rather play it safe and ride with old Ned?” I snapped out of my moment of indecision, and followed my employer toward Sir Denis’s machine.
Sir Denis introduced Mr. Clemens and me to Osmond, his driver and mechanic, who favored us with a few mumbled words that I could barely make out over the noise of the engine. We climbed into the seats, and Osmond adjusted a button similar to one of the stops on an organ, pushed on a large lever, and the vehicle gave a mechanical cough and lurched backward. At first I thought this was some kind of mistake, but the driver had turned around to look behind the vehicle, and so I decided it was probably intentional. The car abruptly came to a halt. Osmond threw the lever into a different position, then reached out and squeezed a rubber bulb on the right side of the car, which made a raucous horn blare out, startling Ned Perkins’s horse yet again. Paying no attention to the poor animal, Osmond took off with another lurch, this time in the forward direction.
We rolled past the houses and shops of the little village at an astonishing rate. The inhabitants were evidently already used to seeing this contraption on their main street—we passed several people who barely spared a glance at us. Two local dogs did decide to make it their business to chase us out of town—at least, I assume they weren’t actually trying to catch us. Then, almost before I could get a proper look at the town, we were on a country lane, whizzing past fields and little groves of trees.
The road out here was much rougher than in town, and we were kicking up far more dust than a horse-drawn vehicle would have. I felt that I might be thrown loose at every curve. Fortunately, there was a sturdy brass rail mounted on the back of the front bench of the motorcar, and I held on to it as if my life depended on it—which it quite possibly did. But for sheer dread, nothing matched the moment when we crested a hill only to see an enormous farm wagon and a straining team of oxen on the road directly in front of us. To this day, I could not tell you how we missed it—I fear my eyes were closed tight at the crucial instant—but when I opened them, I found that either by Osmond’s skill or by the grace of God, we were still alive. I knew then that the future held no further terrors for me. I had ridden in a motorcar driven by a madman, and I had lived to tell the tale. Not even the prospect of returning to town by the same conveyance could intimidate me now.
Shortly after that, the driver slowed down and made a turn between two rugged stone pillars into a tree lined lane. Sir Denis turned around and shouted something at us, but I could not make out what he said. Then I looked
