We were now about two miles from home, and suddenly we came across a big red Bubble which stood in front of a road-house, sneezing inwardly and sobbing with all its corrugated heart.
Parsifal saw the machine before we did.
We knew there must be an automobile somewhere near, because he stopped still and quietly passed away.
I jumped out and tried to lead him by the Coroner's Delight, but he planted his four feet in the middle of the road and refused to be coaxed.
I took that horse by the ear and whispered therein just what I thought about him, but he wouldn't talk back.
I told him my wife's honor was at stake, but he looked my wife over and his lips curled with an expression which seemed to say, "Impossible."
It was all off with us.
Parsifal simply wouldn't move until that sobbing Choo Choo Wagon had left the neighborhood, so I went inside the road-house to find the owner.
I found him. He consisted of a German chauffeur and eight bottles of beer.
When I explained the pitiful situation to him the chauffeur swallowed two bottles of beer and began to cry.