The Lightning Conductor/Chapter 2
Carlton Hotel, London,
Dearest,
I've got it; it's mine; bought and paid for. It's so handsome that even Aunt Mary is mollified. (I didn't mean that for a pun, but let it pass.) Mr. Cecil-Lanstown has told me everything I ought to know (about motor-cars, I mean), and now, after having tea with us, looking dukier than ever, he has departed with a roll of your hard-earned money in his pocket. It's lucky I met him when I did, and secured the car, for he has been called out of England on business, is going to-morrow, and seems not to know when he'll be able to get back. But he says we may meet in France when he has his big racing automobile.
The only drawback to my new toy is the chauffeur. Why "chauffeur" by the way, I wonder? He doesn't heat anything. On the contrary, if I understand the matter, it's apparently his duty to keep things cool, including his own head. This one looks as if he had had his head on ice for years. He is the gloomiest man I ever saw, gives you the feeling that he may burst into tears any minute; but Mr. Cecil-Lanstown says he is one of the best chauffeurs in England, and thoroughly understands this particular make of car, which is German.
The man's name is Rattray. It suits him somehow. If I were the heroine of a melodrama, I should feel the minute I set eyes on Rattray that he was the villain of the piece, and I should hang on like grim death to any marriage certificates or wills that might concern me, for I should know it would be his aim during at least four acts to get possession of them, He has enormous blue eyes like Easter eggs, and his ears look something like cactuses, only, thank goodness, I'm spared their being green; they wouldn't go with his complexion. I talked to him and put on scientific airs, but I'm afraid they weren't effective, for he hardly said anything, only looked gloomy, and as if he read "amateur" written on my soul or somewhere where it wasn't supposed to show. He's gone now to make arrangements for keeping my car in a garage. He's to bring it round every morning at ten o'clock, and is to teach me to drive. I won't seal this letter up till to-morrow then I can tell you how I like my first lesson.
I was proud of the car when I went out on it yesterday. Aunt Mary wouldn't go, because she doesn't wish to be the "victim of an experiment." Rattray drove for a long way, but when we got beyond the traffic, towards Richmond, I took his place, and my lesson began. It's harder than I thought it would be, because you have to do so many things at once. You really ought to have three or four hands with this car, Rattray says. When I asked him if it was different with other cars, he didn't seem to hear. Already I've noticed that he's subject to a sort of spasmodic deafness, but I suppose I must put up with that, as he is such a fine mechanic. One can't have everything.
With your left hand you have to steer the car by means of a kind of tiller, and to this is attached the horn to warn creatures of all sorts that you're coming. I blow this with my right hand, but Rattray says I ought to learn to do it while steering with the left, as there are quantities of other things to be done with the right hand. First there is a funny little handle with which you change speeds whenever you come to a hill; then there is the "jockey-pulley-lever," which gives the right tension to the belts (this is very important); the "throttle-valve-lever," on which you must always keep your hand to control the speed of the car; and the brake which you jam on when you want to stop. So there are two things to do with the left hand, and four things with the right, and often most of these things must be done at the same time. No wonder I was confused and got my hands a little mixed, so that I forgot which was which, and things went wrong for a second! Just then a cart was rude enough to come round a corner. I tried to steer to the right, but went to the left—and you can't think how many things can happen with a motor-car in one second.
Now, don't be worried! I wasn't hurt a bit; only we charged on to the sidewalk, and butted into a shop. It was my fault, not a bit the car's. If it weren't a splendid car it would have been smashed to pieces, and perhaps we with it, instead of just breaking the front—oh, and the shop too, a little. I shall have to pay the man something. He's a "haberdasher," whatever that is, but it sounds like the sort of name he might have called me if he'd been very angry when I broke his window.
The one bad consequence of my stupidity is that the poor, innocent, sinned-against car must lie up for repairs. Rattray says they may take some days. In that case Aunt Mary and I must do our shopping in a hired brougham—such an anti-climax; but Rattray promises that the dear thing shall be ready for our start to France on the 19th. Meanwhile, I shall console myself for my disappointment by buying an outfit for a trip a warm coat, and a mask, and a hood, and all sorts of tricky little things I've marked in a perfectly thrilling catalogue.
Now, if you fuss, I shall be sorry I've told you the truth. Remember the axiom about the bad penny. That's
Your