Patty's Motor Car

“If you help me win it, I’ll give you a ride in it,” said Patty. “But I haven’t won it yet.”

“No, and you won’t,” said her father. “Those contests are just planned for an advertisement. The prize goes to the daughter of the chief director.”

“Oh, Father Fairfield! What a mean thing to say! You don’t know that that’s so at all. Now, I believe in their honesty.”

“So do I,” said Nan. “That isn’t like you, Fred, to express such an unfounded suspicion.”

“Well, perhaps I spoke too hastily. But still, Patty, I don’t think you want the thing. If you get it, I’ll sell it for you, and give you the money.”

“No, sir-ee! I want it for itself alone. Oh, father, think what fun I’d have spinning around the country! Wouldn’t we, Nan?”

“Yes, indeed! I think it would be great fun. And they say those electrics are easy to manage.”

“Pooh! as easy as pie,” declared Patty. “And, anyway, I ran a big touring car once, in France. A big gasoline one. An electric is nothing to that.”

“What do you do to make it go?” asked her father, smiling.

“Oh, you just release the pawl that engages the clutch that holds the lever that sustains the spring that lets go the brake – and there you are!”

“Patty! where did you learn all that jargon?”

“’Tisn’t jargon; it’s sense. And now, my dear ones, will you all help me in my stupendous undertaking? For, when I engage in a contest, I want to win.”

“Is it winning, if you have so much help?” teased her father.

“Yes, it is. The contest is to get the answers to those hundred questions and send them in. It doesn’t matter where you get your answers. You don’t want to enter the contest yourself, do you, Mr. Van Reypen?”

“No, no, fair lady. I would but be thy humble knight, and render such poor assistance as I may.”

“All right, then; right after dinner, we’ll tackle that book of posers.”

And so, for a couple of hours that evening, Patty and Philip Van Reypen exerted the full force of their intellects to unravel the knotty tangles propounded by the little paper-covered book.

Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield tried for a time, but soon grew weary of the difficult game.

“Now, take this one,” said Patty to her colleague; “‘How do you swallow a door?’”

“Bolt it,” he replied, promptly. “That’s an old one.”

“I ought to have guessed that myself,” said Patty, “I’m so fond of slang.”

“‘Bolt it,’ isn’t exactly slang.”

“No, – I s’pose not. It’s just rude diction. Now, answer this. ‘The poor have two, the rich have none. Schoolboys have several, you have one.’”

“Well, that’s one of a class of puzzles to which the answer is usually some letter of the alphabet.”

“Oh, of course!” cried Patty, quickly; “it is O. There, I guessed that! Don’t you claim it!”

“Of course, you did! Now, you know this one about the headless man, don’t you? It’s a classic.”

“No, I don’t. I can’t see any sense to it at all.”

“Read it.”

So Patty read aloud:

“‘A headless man had a letter to write
It was read by one who had lost his sight,
The dumb repeated it, word for word,
And he who was deaf both listened and heard.’”

“And you don’t know that?” asked Philip.

“No; the conditions are impossible.”

“Oh, no, they’re not. They only seem so. The answer is, ‘Nothing.’ You see the headless man could write nothing, that’s naught, zero, or the letter O. Then the blind man, of course, could read nothing; the dumb man could repeat nothing; and the deaf man heard nothing.”

“Pooh! I don’t think that’s very clever.”

“Not modernly clever, but it’s a good example of the old-time enigmas.”

“Gracious! What a lot you know about puzzles. Have you always studied them.”

“Yes; I loved them as a child, and I love them still. I think this whole book is great fun. But we’ll strike some really difficult ones yet. Here’s one I’ve never seen before. I’ll read it, and see if we, either of us, get a clue.

“‘What is it men and women all despise,
Yet one and all alike as highly prize?
What kings possess not; yet full sure am I
That for that luxury they often sigh.
What never was for sale; yet any day
The thrifty housewife will give some away
The farmer needs it for his growing corn.
The tired husbandman delights to own.
The very thing for any sick friend’s room.
It coming, silent as Spring’s early bloom.
A great, soft, yielding thing, that no one fears.
A tiny thing, oft wet with mother’s tears.
A thing so holy that we often wear
It carefully hidden from the world’s cold stare.’”

“Well,” remarked Patty, complacently, as he finished reading, “I’ve guessed that.”

“You have! You bright little thing! I haven’t. Now, don’t tell me. Wait a minute! No, I can’t catch it. Tell me the answer.”

“Why, it’s An Old Shoe,” said Patty, laughing. “See how it all fits in.”

“Yes; it’s rattling clever. I like that one. Did you guess it as I read?”