“All right,” said Franklin genially, and then more aisles and more streams and more stores—and then in the distance some manufactories came into view, brightly lighted windows reflected in some water.
“Here we are,” I sighed sleepily, but we weren’t, not quite. This was a crossroad somewhere—a dividing of the ways—but the readable signs to say which way were not visible. We got out and struck matches to make the words more intelligible. They had been obliterated by rust. I saw a light in a house and went there. A tall, spare man of fifty came out on the porch and directed us. This was Factoryville or near it, he said—another mile on we would find an inn. We were something like twentyfive miles from Scranton. If you stop and look at electric parks and watch the dancers, you can’t expect to make very good time. In Factoryville, as dark and silent as a small sleeping town may be, we found one light—or Franklin did—and behind it the village barber reading a novel. In the shadow of his doorway Franklin entered into a long and intimate discussion with him—about heaven only knows what. I had already noted of Franklin that he could take up more time securing seeming information than any human being I had ever known. It was astounding how he could stand and gossip, coming back finally with such a simple statement as, “He says turn to the right,” or “We go north.” But why a week to discover this, I used to think. Finally, almost arm in arm with the barber, they disappeared around a corner. A weary string of moments rolled past before Franklin strolled back to say there was no real inn—no hotel that had a license—but there was a man who kept a “kind of a hotel” and he had a barn or shed, which would do as a garage.
“Better stay, eh?” he suggested.
“Well, rather,” I answered.
When we had unslung our bags and coats, Speed took the car to the barn in the rear and up we went into a typical American papier mâché room. The least step, the least movement, and wooden floors and partitions seemed to shout. But there were two large rooms with three beds and, what was more, a porch with a wooden swing. There was a large porcelain bath in a room at the rear and pictures of all the proprietor’s relatives done in crayon.
How we slept! There were plenty of windows, with a fresh breeze blowing and no noises, except some katydids sawing lustily. I caught the perfume of country woods and fields and, afar off, as I stretched on an easy bed, I could hear a train whistling and rumbling faintly—that far off Ooh!—ooh!—oo!—oo!
I lay there thinking what a fine thing it was to motor in this haphazard fashion—how pleasant it was not to know where you were going or where you would be tomorrow, exactly. Franklin’s car was so good, Speed so careful. Then I seemed to be borne somewhere on great wings, until the dawn coming in at the window awakened me. The birds were singing.
“Oh, yes, Factoryville,” I sighed. “That’s where we are. We’re motoring to Indiana.”
And I turned over and slept another hour.