Knocking the Neighbors

Once there was a staid and well-behaving Citizen who took home a dab of Steak, wrapped up in Brown Paper, nearly every Evening, and found his Excitement by working on the Puzzle Column in the Church Paper.

In order to run out to his Farm and save the Expense of keeping a Gee-Gee, he purchased a kind of Highway Beetle, known as a Runabout. It was a One-Lunger with a Wheel Base of nearly 28 inches and two Coal Oil Gleamers.

When standing still, it panted like a Dachshund and breathed Blue Smoke through the Gills.

It steered with a Rudder, the same as a Canal Boat, and every time it started up a 4 per cent Grade it became Black in the Face and tried to lie down.

All the large brutal-looking Cars with the swollen Wheels came along and tried to Ditch him. They showed him the same courteous consideration that would be lavished upon a Colored Republican Orator in Tuscaloosa, Ala.

When he pulled up alongside of the Road to adjust the Buzzer and jiggle the Feed and clean the Plug, the idle Spectators would stand around and remark that the mixture was wrong and the Ignition was a Punk and the Transmission was a Fliv. So he knew he was In Wrong.

He traded for a dashing 2-Cylinder Affair painted Red, with a Tonneau as wide and roomy as a Telephone Booth, and approached from the extreme Rear by a small Door, as in the case of a Blind Pig.

When he turned in the Runabout, he was allowed one Outer Casing and a Monkey-wrench in Exchange.

He was Some Motorist for about Three Weeks after the delivery of Juggernaut Number Two. He wore Leather Clothes, the same as Barney Oldfield.

But when he bumped up against the Owners of the Big Touring Cars he was just as much at home as a One-armed Man at a Husking Bee.