As I sat on a stool looking out and munching my “ham-and” I could not help thinking of the high spirits of all these towns we were passing. In Europe, in places of four or five times the size of this—Rotterdam, Amsterdam, The Hague, Dover, Amiens, Florence, Perugia, even Venice, I might say, I found no such flare nor any such zest for just living. What is it about Americans that gives all their small towns such an air? Somebody had already introduced the five-light lamp standard here, in one or two places. The stores were all brightly lighted and you could see boys and girls going up and down in the hope of those chance encounters with adventure which youths and maidens of all strata so crave. Noting all this, I said to myself that in Europe somehow, in towns of this size and much larger, things always seemed duller. Here in America there are always these boys and girls of no particular social caste, I take it, whose homes are not very attractive, whose minds and bodies are craving a touch of vitality—gay contact with someone of the other sex—and who find their social life in this way, on the streets. No doubt at this point someone will rise to say that they need more supervision. I am not so sure. As life expresses itself, so it should be, I fancy. All my sympathies go out to such young people, for I recall with what earnestness as a boy I used to do this same thing—how I wished and longed and how my body tingled at the thoughts of love and the promise of life to come.
Once on the road again, I hummed and meditated until suddenly I found myself dreaming. I wasn’t on the high road between Binghamton and Elmira at all but in some happy land that hadn’t anything to do with motoring—a land of youth and affection. Suddenly I sat up, wondering whether I had keeled over toward Franklin, and he had discovered that I had been asleep.
“We don’t have to spend the night in Elmira, do we?” I ventured cautiously.
“Oh, no,” said Franklin, amiably.
“Since it’s so late, the next hotel we come to, we’d better tie up, don’t you think,—I’m getting sleepy.”
“All right for me,” agreed Franklin. I couldn’t tell whether he was sleepy or not.
Presently a great square old house came into view with trees and flowers and a light burning before it. It was so still now we seemed to have the night all to ourselves. No automobiles were in sight. We debated whether we would stay here.
“Oh, let’s risk it,” said Franklin. “It’s only for one night, anyhow.”
We were greeted by a tall, angular country boy with the air of one who is half asleep and a habit of running his hand through his hair. He had been serving three men in the rear with drinks. He led us up warm, stuffy, carpeted halls, lighted by oil lamps, into a small, musty chamber with a large, yellow, creaky bed. This and another similar apartment for Speed were all he could offer us.
It was hot. A few mosquitoes were buzzing. Still the prospect of a deep black sky and stars through the open window was soothing. I made a few joyless comments, which Franklin received in silence; and then we slept.