In the year 1903 I bought my first automobile. It was a Ford. Even as early as that the inimitable Henry was at work; but this car was quite unlike the modern Ford. It had double opposed cylinders placed horizontally on either side of the crankshaft which was in the middle and in the fore and aft axis of the machine. The engine was said to develop eight horsepower—perhaps it did. There was a front seat for two passengers and two corner seats for two more in the small tonneau back of it. The tonneau was entered by a narrow door in the middle of the back; below it was a step to enable the passengers to get up and down. There was no cover. The car was painted a brilliant red.
I was very much elated over my new car which had been carefully tested before I bought it. The salesman, who was also the mechanic, drove me over all the rough roads and steep hills in the vicinity. I drove it down one of these steep hills myself to test the brakes. Under all these tests the car behaved very well, but I soon found that a good-sized repair bill was a necessary part of the program. I also found myself gaining a profound respect for the mechanic, that is for some mechanics. I also discovered that it was necessary to spend three hours looking for the source of any trouble and but three minutes in fixing it.
There was a beautiful drive along the river. Every evening after my working day was over and I had had supper (we did not call it dinner) I was in the habit of driving several miles down the river and back before the night shut in. In case I lingered and the darkness overtook me there was a brilliant headlight in the front of the car making the pathway as light as day. Usually some young lady of my acquaintance accompanied me on these drives. I was also fond of riding on Sunday afternoons. I asked Mrs. Henry to go with me one Sunday afternoon but she refused—she said it was wicked to take rides on Sunday.
“You might say that if I were driving a horse or an ass or anything that was my neighbor’s, Mrs. Henry,” said I, “but I am driving a soulless machine and it belongs to me.”
“Well, I don’t know very well just what the ins and outs are,” she replied, “but I don’t feel right when I go out driving on Sunday.”
Mr. Henry smiled—I knew he did not feel that much respect for Sunday—but when I asked him to go he declined; said he had a lot of writing to do, but I thought he was afraid.
I was determined to go and did not want to go alone. There was a baker’s daughter living on the same street. She was a very pretty girl, with a beautiful complexion and wonderful eyes. She had a smile and a kind word for everybody. When I asked her whether she would like to go she said: “yes she would, very much.” Now, that is what I like in a girl; I like a girl who knows her own mind.
Sally was a quiet girl, usually, but that afternoon she had a great deal to say. When she spoke she smiled at me, and she did not say a single unkind thing during the ride. I was very much pleased with Sally. I thought it would be nice to have her around all the time. I determined to take her again that evening; her mother told me, however, that she had gone to church with Jim Barkley. Jim was a bank cashier. He was getting a good salary and dressed very well. I looked at Mrs. Lunn with considerable interest. She was a very nice woman and her complexion was good, for she lived over a bakery, and spent much of her time in it. I had noticed that bakers and singers always had good complexions and were fat. Mrs. Lunn was fat, too—very fat. As I looked at her I said to myself: “that is how Sally will look in a few years,” and a chill stole over me.
I was living at a boarding house at this time. Several other members of the college faculty also boarded there. The food was pretty good but we were not very well satisfied. The dining table was rather small and was so full of dishes that the coffee pot was placed on the floor alongside of the hostess. We had pie at every meal—a fresh pie at lunch and supper, and pieces of left-over pie for breakfast. Of course we need not eat pie, but so much pie was disconcerting. That coffee pot on the floor was disconcerting also. One of the boarders disturbed us, too. He was a minister and a very good young man, but when he wanted a piece of pie he looked straight at it, like a pointer dog, until some one asked him to have a piece. I had boarded for two years and I was growing tired of boarding. My position as a teacher in Rochambeau College was pleasant but I was growing restless.