on
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.

Then he told the waiter to call him at 7:30, and he put his head
down on the table and went to sleep with his face in a cute little
nest of hard-boiled cigarettes.

I rushed to the telephone and called up the liveryman, but before I
could think of a word strong enough to fit the occasion he
whispered over the wire, "I know your voice, Mr. Henry. I suppose
Parsifal is waiting for you outside!"

Forthwith I tried to tell that liveryman just what I thought about
him and Parsifal, but the telephone girl short-circuited my remarks
and they came back and set fire to the woodwork.

"My, my!" I could hear the liveryman saying. "Parsifal's
hesitation must be the result of the epidemic of automobiles which
is now raging over our country roads. The automobile has a strange
effect on Parsifal. It seems to cover him with a pause and gives
him inflammation of the speed."

I thought of poor Peaches sitting out there in that blushing buggy
staring at a dreaming horse, while in front of her a Red Devil
Wagon complained internally and shook its tonneau at her, and once
more I jolted that liveryman with a few verbal twisters.

"Don't get excited," he whispered back over the phone. "Parsifal
is a new idea in horses. Whenever he meets an automobile he goes
to sleep and tries to forget it. Isn't that better than running
away and dragging you to a hospital? There must be something about
an automobile that affects Parsifal's heart. I think it is the
gasolene. The odor from the gasolene seems to penetrate his mind
to the region of his memory and he forgets to move. Parsifal is a
fine horse, with a most lovable disposition, but when the air
becomes charged with gasolene he forgets his duty and falls asleep
at the switch."

I went out and explained to my wife that Parsifal was a victim of
the gasolene habit, and that he would never leave that spot until
the Bubble went away, and that the Bubble couldn't go away until
the _chauffeur_ could wake up, and that the chauffeur couldn't wake
up until his mind had digested a lot of wood alcohol, so she jumped
out of the buggy and we walked home.

Parsifal may be a new idea in horses, but the next time I go buggy
rid