Tarrytown. As a matter of
fact, the car's all right, ain't it?"

"Certainly!" says the mechanic. "Ain't it a new one? Gimme a
cigarette and I'll see if I can get this tin can here to roll."

It's just about eighteen miles as the pigeon soars from where we
started to Runyon Q. Sampson's country home at Tarrytown, and we fled
up there in two hours. This car was a wonder on hills, that is it's a
wonder we got up 'em at all. We climbed most of 'em with the emergency
brake on so's we wouldn't slip back to the garage, and I figured that
the car must of been painted yellah in honor of the motor, which quit
like a dog every time the goin' got rough. The mechanic drives us in
through the entrance of Sampson's domicile, as we remark at the garage,
and then stops for encouragement before goin' further. Alex elects me
to go up and notify Sampson that we're all set to show him the Gaflooey
chummy roadster, while he and the mechanic stays behind to look over
the car and see that everything is workin' fairly perfect. I got as
far as the porch and a guy in a drum-major's uneyform without the hat
nails me. He was as big as the Woolworth Buildin' and just as
emotional. He looked like what them stage butlers tries to.

"What would you wish?" he asks, friendly as a traffic cop to a
taxi-driver.

"Well, if I thought they was any use," I says, "I'd wish I had a
million bucks, but as it is, I'd like to see Runyon Q. Sampson, your
master."

"Step this way!" he says, startin' to walk ahead.

"I can't step that way!" I says, watchin' him close. "It must be a
gift. I'll have to folley you in my own way on account of havin' a
blowout in my rubber heels an--"

Just then a little bald-headed guy with one of them short gray
mustaches which the wealthy banker wears in the movies, crosses our
path and the big feller stops and salutes him.

"Gentleman to see you, sir," he says.

"Hmph!" grunts Runyon Q. Sampson, which is who the little guy was, as
the gentle readers has prob'ly guessed. "I can't see any one now. I
have an appointment this afternoon to--"

"I guess I'm that appointment," I butts in, "or part of it, anyways.
Was you expectin' to look over a Gaflooey chummy roadster?"

"Well, what of it?" he snaps.

"My lord, the carriage awaits!" I says, makin' a bow. "Folley me and
you'll go motorin'!"

"Are you the agent?" he asks, as we walk back over the lawn.

"No," I says, "I'm his cousin. He's carryin' me along fo