have on Washington's birthday. That was in 1911.

As I was leaving I looked at my new wrist watch and discovered that it
was a quarter of five.

"Just in time to catch dad and drive him home from the office," I said
to myself, for I knew that he left the office of his big paper-mill
down at the docks at five o'clock.

I jumped into the car and bowled along down Spring Street and the Front
Street hill and arrived at the mill office at exactly five. Dad wasn't
in sight so I decided to turn around and wait for him at the curb. That
is how the trouble started. I got part way around on the hill when that
cylinder began missing a lot and next thing I knew the motor stalled and
there was I with my car crosswise on the hill, blocking traffic--and
traffic is heavy on Front Street hill about five o'clock, because all
the mills are rushing their trucks down to the piers with the last loads
of merchandise before the down-river boats leave, at six o'clock.

In about two minutes I was holding up a line of trucks a block long and
those drivers were saying a lot of things that were not very
complimentary to me and not printed in Sunday-school papers. And old
Blink Broosmore was right up at the head of the line with a truck load
of cases from the box factory and the look on his face was about as ugly
as a mud turtle's. Then, to make matters worse, my starter wouldn't work
at the critical moment, and I had to get out to crank the engine. What a
howl of indignation went up from those stalled truck drivers! I felt
like a bad two-cent piece in a drawer full of five-dollar gold pieces.
Guess my face was red behind my ears.

And then old Blink made the unkindest remark of all--no, he didn't make
it to me; he just yelled it out to a couple of other truck-drivers.

"That's what happens with these make-believe dudes," he shouted. "That's
the kid old Skin Flint Crawford took out of an orphan asylum. He's a kid
that old Crawford took up with because he was too mean t' have t' Lord
bless him with one o' his own. That's straight, fellers. I was
Crawford's gardener when it happened an'--"

Old Blink stopped and got red and then white, and I could see the other
truck men looking uncomfortable. I looked up and there was Dad Crawford
on the curb boring holes into Blink with those cold gray eyes of his and
looking as white as marble. No one said a word. It seemed as if the
whole street became hushed and silent. I got the car around to the curb
som