The Lightning Conductor | Page 9

light enough to make darkness visible, so that we
daren't travel at high speed. There were uncountable belt-breakings and
heartachings before at last, after eleven at night, we crawled through
the barriers of Paris and mounted up the Avenue de la Grande Armée to
the Arc de Triomphe. We drove straight to the Elysée Palace Hotel, and
let Rattray take the brute beast to a garage, which I wished had been a
slaughter-house.
I couldn't sleep that night for thinking that I was actually in Paris, and
for puzzling what to do next, since it was clear it would be no use going
on with the car unless some hidden ailment could be discovered and
rectified. Our plan had been to stop in Paris for a week, and then drive
on to the beautiful Château country of the Loire that I've always
dreamed of seeing. Afterwards, I thought we might go across country to
the Riviera; but now, unless light suddenly shone out of darkness, all
that was knocked on the head. What was my joy, then, in the morning,
when Rattray came and deigned to inform me that he had found out the
cause of the worst mischief! "The connecting-rod that worked the
magnet had got out of adjustment, and so the Aiming of the explosions
was wrong." This could be made right, and he would see to the belts

and chains. In a few days we might be ready to get away, with some
hope of better luck.
I was so pleased I gave him a louis. Afterwards I wished I hadn't--but
that's a detail. I sent you a cable, just saying, you'll remember: "Elysée
Palace for a week; all well"; and Aunt Mary and I proceeded to drown
our sorrows by draughts of undiluted Paris.
Crowds of Americans were at the hotel, a good many I knew; but Aunt
Mary and I kept dark about the automobile--very different from that
time in London, where I was always swaggering around talking of "my
motor-car" and the trip I meant to take. Poor little me!
Mrs. Tom van Wyck was there, and she introduced me to an
Englishwoman, Lady Brighthelmstone, a viscountess, or something,
and you pronounce her "Lady Brighton." She's near-sighted and looks
at you through a lorgnette, which is disconcerting, and makes you feel
as if your features didn't match properly; but she turned out to be rather
nice, and said she hoped we'd see each other at Cannes, where she's
going immediately. She expects her son to join her there. He's touring
now on his motor-car, and expects to meet her and some friends on the
Riviera in about a fortnight. Mrs. van Wyck told me he's the
Honourable John Winston, and a very nice fellow, but I grudge him an
automobile, which goes.
I just couldn't write to you that week in Paris; not that I was too
busy--I'm never too busy to write to my dear old boy. But I knew you'd
expect to hear how I enjoyed the trip, and I didn't want to tell you the
bad news till perhaps I might have good news to add. Consequently I
cabled whenever a writing-day came round.
Well, at last Rattray vowed that the car was in good condition, and we
might start. It was a whole week since I'd seen the monster, and it
looked so handsome as it sailed up to the hotel door that my pride in it
came back. It was early in the morning, so there weren't many people
about, but I shouldn't have had cause to be ashamed if there had been.
We went off in fine style, and it was delicious driving through the Bois,
en route for Orleans, by way of Versailles. After all, I said to myself,

perhaps the car hadn't been to blame for our horrid experience. No car
was perfect, even Rattray admitted that. Some little thing had gone
wrong with ours, and the poor thing had been misunderstood.
We had traversed the Bois, and were mounting the long hill of Suresnes,
when "squeak! squeak!" a little insinuating sound began to mingle with
my reflections. I was too happy, with the sweet wind in my face, to pay
attention at first, but the noise kept on, insisting on being noticed. Then
it occurred to me that I'd heard it before in moments of baleful memory.
"I believe that horrid crank-head is getting hot," said I. "Are you sure it
doesn't need oil?"
"Sure, miss," returned Rattray. "The crank-head's all right. That squeak
ain't anything to worry about."
So I didn't worry, and we bowled along for twenty perfect minutes,
then something went smash inside, and we stopped dead. It was the
crank-head, which was nearly red hot. The crank had snapped like a
carrot. I