It was along in February that Alice met Boles at a dance. That was on a Tuesday night, and when I went out to see her on the Friday, Boles was amongst those present.
I and him was in love with each other from the start—like a couple o’ strange gamecocks. On this evenin’ when we was introduced, Alice had to do all the talkin’ while us two set there and sized each other up. About one o’clock she give unmistakable signs that she longed for the hay. Boles had been waitin’ for me to go, and I’d been waitin’ for him to do the same thing. When I finally seen how tired Alice was, I give up and beat it. He come away soon after. I know because him and his chummy roadster passed me before I’d walked two blocks. The roadster wasn’t feelin’ chummy enough to pick me up and ride me to the elevated.
The next day I called her up.
“Alice,” I says, “my visit with you last night wasn’t what I’d call a complete success. You know, I hate crowds.”
“Well,” she says, “come out some evenin’ when they’s less traffic.”
“How about this evenin’?” I ast her.
“Nothin’ doin’,” she says. “I’m goin’ out for a ride, with Mr. Boles.”
“Tomorrow evenin’, then,” says I.
“I’m afraid not tomorrow evenin’, neither,” she says. “I’m goin’ downtown to a show, with Mr. Boles.”
“Tomorrow afternoon?” I says.
She acted kind o’ fussed.
“No,” she says. “You see, Mr. Boles is comin’ out to dinner and then he’s goin’ to take Mother and Sis and I for a ride and stay to supper, and then the show.”
“Will he be out for breakfast Monday mornin’?” says I.
“Don’t be sarcastical, Charley,” she says. “If you really want to see me, I think I can spare Tuesday evenin’.”
“I can’t,” I says, and slammed up the receiver.
The peeve lasted till Tuesday mornin’. Then I got over it and phoned again.
“If you can still spare this evenin’,” I says.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “but I’m goin’ over on the North Side to see Julia.”
“With Mr. Boles?” says I.
“Well, yes, if you must know,” she says.
One o’ the salesmen down to the office told me that the best car he knowed of that cost less than $1,000 was the Swift Six.
“But you can’t afford no car,” he says.
“I know it,” says I, “but I can’t afford to not have one, neither.”
“Have you got the money to pay for it?” he ast me.
“No,” I says. “I got $400 in the savin’s bank, besides a month’s pay.”
“Well,” he says, “I know the boss o’ their Chicago office, and if you insist, I can get him to leave you take the car for $400 down and pay the balance in six months or so.”
“Go ahead,” I says.
So the next day—it was the first o’ March—I become a motorist.
The Swift Six people was mighty nice to me. Besides the car, they give me a hand pump for the tires, and five gallons o’ gasoline, and a set o’ tools that I didn’t know what any o’ them was for, and couldn’t of used ’em if I had.
“Go easy with her,” they says, “till the weather moderates. It don’t help a car to break it in in the cold.”
So I just run her up and down the West Side boulevards a few minutes every night, for practice, and waited for the papers to prophesy fair and warmer.
Well, I mastered the art o’ drivin’ and still they wasn’t no signs o’ Spring, so I decided to not wait no longer. One Friday noon I called Alice up. It was the first time I’d talked to her for pretty near two weeks.
“What are you doin’ Sunday?” I ast her.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe I’ll take a ride.”
“That’s just what you’re goin’ to do,” says I. “But you’re goin’ to take it with me.”
“What do you mean?” she says.
“A friend o’ mine’s got a new car,” I told her, “and he’s goin’ to take you and I up on the North Shore.”
“That’ll be grand!” she says. “But will you be sure and get here by one o’clock?”
“Why?” I says.
“Because I want to be gone before Mr. Boles comes,” she says. “He’s got a habit o’ comin’ round every evenin’, and on Sunday afternoons and he’s so persistent that it’s hard to refuse him. He’ll want me to go ridin’ with him, and I’d a whole lot rather be gone before he comes than have to explain why I can’t go.”
“I’ll be there at noon,” says I, “and if you ain’t ready I’ll wait for you.”
So on Saturday morning, on the way to work, I drove Mr. Swift Six down lookin’ for a garage to get him all primed up for my first real trip. I’d read the ads of this Great East Auto School where they says everything’s half price ’cause the students does the work, only perfect under the supervision of expert teachers. So in I bobs, it bein’ handy.
“Fill it up with gas,” I says, “and see if it needs oil, and that left rear tire looks like it could stand a little air. How soon can you get through with it?”
“In about twenty minutes,” says the guy.
“All right,” I says. “Make it as fast as you can.”
I didn’t have no intention o’ callin’ for it till evenin’, but I wanted to be sure.
It was pretty near seven
