“You can do the next-best thing then,” I said. “You can buy twenty-five hundred dollars’ worth of Liberty bonds.”
“Not no three and a half percent, I can’t!” said Cross. “A man that don’t get six percent for his money these days is a fish. But,” he goes on, “I’m not going to get no six percent or any other percent. I’m going to spend the money.”
I asked him what on.
“Well,” he said, “I’m tired of living with the wife’s folks.”
“And maybe it’s fifty-fifty,” said I.
“Anyway,” he said, “I and Nan are figuring on a cozy little flat of our own, and it’s going to cost us about six hundred dollars for furniture, a piano inclusive.”
“Well,” I said, “that’ll leave you nineteen hundred for the Liberty loan.”
“No,” said Cross, “because I promised to buy the Missus a car.”
“You certainly are a sport,” said I, “—to forget your own comfort and enjoyment and think only of your wife’s, especially when you stop to consider that the lady who died was her aunt. I suppose it’ll be an electric.”
“No,” said Cross, “and it won’t be no flivver. When I buy a car, it’ll be a regular car. We’ve just about decided on a Champion.”
“A seven-passenger?” I asked him.
“No,” he said, “it’s what they call the Clubby Roadster, with room for four.”
“And how much do they cost?” said I.
“About fifteen hundred,” he said. “But that don’t include the extra tire or the engine-driven pump or the bumper, or the freight from Cleveland to here.”
“I suppose,” said I, “that they throw in a steering-wheel and a horn.”
“Altogether,” said Cross, “it comes to about fifteen-ninety, and the salesman says it’s the biggest bargain a man could find.”
I asked him if he could drive it.
“I won’t have no trouble,” he said. “It’s half nerve and half good judgment.”
“Well,” said I, “you can be sure of fifty percent efficiency.”
“And as soon as I get good,” said Cross, “I’m coming to take you and your Missus for a ride.”
“Call up ahead of time,” I said. “We’re busy about one night a week.”
“What night?” he asked me.
“The night you come to take us for a ride,” said I. …
But one day near the end of June I picked up a paper and seen where Mr. Wilson was liable to torpedo all the neutral Bourbon without warning; so I and a friend of mine down to the office spent the afternoon lightening his task. And by the time I got home, I was on friendly terms with the whole world and absolutely unable to say no to anybody. That’s the only way I can explain accepting Cross’ invitation, and if the Prohibition forces wants to use this as a moral lesson, they’re as welcome as a fresh egg.
He called up while the Missus was doing the supper-dishes.
“Listen!” he said. “Could you and your wife get off next Saturday?”
I told him I was off now.
“If you could,” he said, “how would you like to take a trip in the car with my wife and I?”
“Tickled to death!” said I.
“All right,” said Cross. “We’ll be over for you early Saturday morning. And have your nighties packed, because wherever we go, we won’t get back before Sunday night.”
I told him that suited me fine, and the deal was closed. You wouldn’t hardly believe a man could get that bad in one afternoon.
Cross came for us about eight o’clock.
“The wife wasn’t quite ready,” he said. “We’ll pick her up on the way. And that’ll give you and your Missus a chance to run up and see our flat.”
So we climbed into the shiny new Champion, I and the Missus in the back seat, and Cross started her off so smooth and easy that I cut my lip on the top of my spine. That first standing broad jump of half a block was the fastest we went on the whole trip.
“The engine’s a little stiff,” said Cross.
“The driver’s a big one,” I said to the Missus.
“They call this car the Clubby Roadster,” said Cross. “It’s a roadster, but most of them only have the driver’s seat, where this one’s got the extra seat for two more passengers. It’s a regular roadster body, only for the extra seat, so they call it a Clubby Roadster, on account of the back seat being right up close to the front. Everybody close together, so they named it the Clubby Roadster.”
“I never saw this style of car before,” said I. “I should think they’d have some special name for it, like Clubby Roadster.”
“That’s what they do call it,” said Cross.
I asked him why, but a postman was crossing the street four blocks off and he had to concentrate.
After we’d cleared this hazard, Cross said:
“I’m wild to get out on the country roads where I can step on her. They tell me she’s capable of fifty-five miles an hour. Would you believe it?”
“You bet I would,” said I, “and hearsay evidence ample.”
“We’re only going fourteen now,” said Cross. “If I speeded up here in the city, I’d be liable to get pinched.”
“And the way you’re going now,” said I, “the danger is that a thirsty truck-horse will romp up behind and drink all your gasoline. Or maybe a vicious snail will stick a claw through your extra tire.”
“There! I just hit fifteen,” said Cross. “The way that I tell is by this thing on the dashboard. It registers how fast I’m going. They call it a speedometer.”
“Is that so!” I said. “I always thought a speedometer was a kind of germicide.”
“No,” said Cross. “One part of it registers speed and another part registers mileage. So far, I’ve traveled just two hundred and twelve miles.”
“You’d ought to swap experiences with Bud Holmes,” said I.
Pretty soon we come to the Honeymoon Pub and Cross stopped the Champion by the simple process of running her into the curb.
“We’ll all go up for just a minute,” said our host. “Nan will be pretty near ready.”
Nan was pretty
