one-half, and the surprising thing was that it had not parted long
before, when subjected to much severer strains.

This was a break that no man could repair on the road. Under
pressure of circumstances the steering-head could have been taken
to the nearest blacksmith shop and a weld made, but that would
require time, and the results would be more than doubtful. By far
the easier thing to do was to wire the factory for a new head and
patiently wait its coming.

Happily, we landed in the hands of a retired farmer, whose
generous hospitality embraced our tired selves as well as the
machine.

Before supper a telegram was sent from Brainerd to the factory for
a new steering-head.

While waiting inside for the operator to finish selling tickets
for the one evening train about to arrive, a curious crowd
gathered outside about my host, and the questions asked were
plainly audible; the names are fictitious.

"What'r ye down t' the stashun fur this hur o' day, Joe?"

"Broke my new aut'mobile," carelessly replied my host, flicking a
fly off the nigh side of his horse.

"Shu!"

"What'r given us?"

"Git out--"

"You ain't got no aut'mobile," chorused the crowd.

"Mebbe I haven't; but if you fellows know an aut'mobile from a hay
rake, you might take a look in my big barn an' let me know what
you see."

"Say, Joe, you're jokin',--hev you really got one?"

"You can look for yourselves."

"I saw one go through here 'bout six o'clock," interrupted a
new-comer. "Great Jehosephat, but 't went like a streak of greased
lightnin'."

"War that your'n, Joe?"

"Well--"

"Naw," said the new-comer, scornfully. "Joe ain't got no
aut'mobile; there's the feller in there now who runs it," and the
crowd turned my way with such interest that I turned to the little
table and wrote the despatch, quite losing the connection of the
subdued murmurs outside; but it was quite evident from the broken
exclamations that my host was filling the populace up with
information interesting inversely to its accuracy.

"Mile a minute--faster'n a train--Holy Moses! what's that, Joe?
broke axle--telegraphed--how many--four more--you don't say so?--
what's his name? I'll bet it's Vanderbilt. Don't you believe it--
it costs money to run one of those machines. I'll bet he's a dandy
from 'way back--stopping at your house--bridal chamber--that's
right--you want to kill the fatted calf for them fellers--say--"

But further comments were cut short