Here in Conneaut, as we were entering the city by “the largest viaduct in the world,” we asked an old toll keeper, who collected thirty cents from us as a token of his esteem, which was the shortest and best road to Ashtabula and whether there wasn’t a good shore road.
“Well, now, I’ll tell you,” he began, striking a position and beginning to smooth his abundant whiskers. “There is a shore road that runs along the lake, but it hain’t no good. If you’re a-goin' fer business you’ll take the Ridge Road, but if you’re just out joy ridin' and don’t care where you go, you can go by the lake. The Ridge Road’s the business man’s road. There hain’t no good road along the lake at this time o' year, with all the rain we’ve been havin'.”
Franklin, I am sure, was inclined to heed his advice at first, whereas I, having listened to similar bits of misinformation all the way out from New York, was inclined to be skeptical and even angry, and besides the car wasn’t mine. These wretched old fixtures, I said to myself, who had never been in an automobile more than a half dozen times in their lives, were the most convinced, apparently, as to the soundness of their information. They infuriated me at times, particularly when their advice tended to drive us out of the course I was interested in, and the shore road was the road I wanted to follow. I persuaded Franklin to pay no attention to this old fussbutton.
“What does he know?” I inquired. “There he sits at that bridge day in and day out and takes toll. Farmers with heavy loads may report all sorts of things, but we’ve seen how fine the dirt roads have been everywhere we’ve followed them.”
Speed agreed with me.
So we struck out along the shore road and nothing could have been better. It was not exactly smooth, but it was soft with a light dust and so close to the lake that you could see the tumbling waves and throw a stone into them if you chose; and at certain points where a cove gave a wider view, there were people bathing and tents tacked down along the shore against the wind. It was wonderful. Every now and then we would encounter young men and women bathers ambling along the road in their water costumes, and in one instance the girl was so very shapely and so young and attractive that we exclaimed with pleasure. When she saw us looking at her she merely laughed and waved her hands. At another point two young girls standing beside a fence called, “Don’t you wish you could take us along?” They were attractive enough to make anybody wish it.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE GAY LIFE OF THE LAKE SHORE
Then came Ashtabula with another such scene as that at Conneaut, only somewhat more picturesque, since the road lay on high ground and we had a most striking view of the lake, with a world of coal cars waiting to be unloaded into ships, and ships and cranes and great moving derricks which formed a kind of filigree of iron in the distance with all the delicacy of an etching.
These coal and iron towns of Ohio were as like in their way as the larger manufacturing centers of the East in theirs. Coming into this place we passed through a small slum section at the end of the bridge by which we were entering, and because there was a water scene here which suggested the Chicago River in its palmiest days before it was renovated and practically deserted, I suggested that we stop and look at it. Three bums of the “Chimmie” Fadden—“Chuck” Connors type were standing in a doorway adjoining a saloon. No sooner did they see us pause than they nudged each other and whispered. Franklin and I passed them to look at the scene. Coming back we climbed in the car, and as we did so the huskiest of the three stepped up and, with a look of humility assumed for the occasion, whimpered: “Say, boss, could you help a poor down-and-out to a mouthful of food?”
I looked at him wearily, because the bluff was too much.