The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK ™, Vol. 1: George Allan England. George Allan England

she was. Sixty H. P., with cylinders as big as pails, an’ took a pail o’ gas, too, every time she coughed.”

      “Some baby, eh?” inquired the young man, with approbation.

      “Oh, boy! Two men to crank her—one to throw her an’ the other to hold his hand over the intake—an’ throwin’ her was a Sandow job, or a Gotch, at that. You had to pump up the gas by hand, every few miles, when the pump was working, which it most usually wasn’t, an’ then you’d stall till you got her patched. An’ no emer­gency. Only a foot brake; an’ one time she busted her universal on the down­grade in a traffic-jam. An’ maybe I didn’t sweat blood, skiddin’ her through—but she coasted right to a garage an’ stopped out­side, an’ all they had to do was come out an’ haul her in!”

      “So you sold her, did you?” interrogated the horn spectacles. “Unloaded her on some sucker?”

      “Did I? But wait till I tell you some more about her. She had her faults, even when I got her, a-plenty. But travel? Say! I never did dare open her up, full. When she really got goin’—an’ sometimes she could be started in less ’n fifteen min­utes—why, there wasn’t no such things as hills to her. She went wild, simply wild over hills. An’ on the level stretches she dusted ’em all, Just a gray streak. Zowie! Never needed no horn, nor nothin’. Make a noise like a pewmatic riveter on a jag. Hear her two-mile off. Some boat!”

      Jimmy Dill puffed smoke-arrows, heav­ily, and nodded strong confirmation. The serious-looking man’s interest seemed growing ever greater. Dill continued with en­thusiasm:

      “Liz was good, ’spite of all her kick-ups, till last spring. Then she slumped sudden, though she still kept flyin’. She was a flyer, even if she begun to show signs of bein’ junk. Tires begun to go bad, with a slow leak in one that we couldn’t fix, noway—all wearin’ down, an’ no more o’ them bolted-on kind to be had. One lug of her cylinder-casin’ cracked off, too. That was bad. Supposin’ another went, while she was doin’ sixty, an’ the engine dropped out? Flowers for yours truly.

      “Magneto went on the blink, too, an’ cylinders wore crooked, so oil worked up, an’ she’d only run a few miles hittin’ on four. Then she begin coughin’ till you’d clean the plugs again. Who the devil can clean plugs every five miles? Her feed got leakin’, too, so you couldn’t pump her up without lamin’ yourself. An’ her gear­shift busted, some way or ’nother, so for a while she’d only run on low—I once brought her home, sixteen mile, on low—an’ then all of a sudden she’d only run on high. After a lot o’ tinkerin’, we got her to run on low an’ high, but no second. An’ boy! The times I used to have, tryin’ to coax her from low to high!

      “I begun to think I’d have to scrap her. But it was only after her radiator blew out, while I was to Ellengone out in the country, an’ I had to plug it with chewin’ gum, an’ then she took to back-firin’, an’ I had to be towed in by a fliv, on the end of thirty foot o’ barb-wire that we cut off’n a farmer’s fence, that I phoned Levitsky.

      “Levitsky, the junkman, come an’ said fifty beans on the hoof, as she stood. I was strong for the fifty, but Bill Heming­way, friend o’ mine—he’s in the garridge business, Bill is—says I can maybe do bet­ter. So I canned Levitsky an’ put an ad in the paper, no price set. An’ several guys come an’ give her the o.o., an’ then blow. Till at last this here wise duck, sent by this here Robinson, arrives.

      II.

      “I HAS LIZ already runnin’ an’ I’m loaded for bear, when he shows up, ’cause he’s already phoned me he’s comin’, an’ I’m not takin’ no chances on not bein’ able to start her. It’s kind of noisy, down by the Alarm Cafe, with lots of electrics and et cet, so Liz don’t sound so awful conspic­uous. She’s all washed an’ polished, any­how, an’ that’s half a sale. The wise duck gives her the up-an’-down, an’ then he says, says he:

      “‘Demonstrate her, will you?’

      “‘Demonstrate is my middle name,’ says I. ‘All goods strictly as represented, or no sale. I wouldn’t take a dollar of any man’s money on no false misrepresenta­tions,’ I says. ‘Money back if not sound an’ kind. Get right in, mister, an’ we’ll hop to it!’

      “So the wise guy gets in, an’ I prepares to make Liz do or die, or perish in the at­tempt.

      “I has her all loaded for bear, o’ course, like I said before. Got enough gas pumped inta the tank on the dash to last her five mile, an’ the plugs all clean, an’ tires all pumped hard—I’m prayin’ harder than the tires is, they won’t blow—an’ I got a new set o’ batt’ries in, an’ got her wired so that when I let on to throw her onta the mag., she’ll still be on bats. The mag.’s out o’ commission, total.

      “An’ I has her on the stiff down-grade front o’ the cafe, so she’ll slip from low inta high, without makin’ no kick-up. So that’s all right. So he’s gets in, the wise duck does, an’ away we blows.

      “Half-way down the grade, I shift her an’ get away with it, O. K. The noisy street camouflages the kick-up in the engine so it ain’t very raw. I pushes her out onta the boulevard, an’ lets her out, an’ boy! Does she hike? Some! The wise duck has to take his dicer off an’ hold it in his lap, to keep it, an’ the way we passes everythin’ is a wonder.

      “So far, it’s pie with ice-cream on top, but my heart’s in my mouth about the big hill. Everybody always has to go into sec­ond, on that doggone hill, you see, an’ Liz ain’t got no second. I try to turn off to­ward the beach road, but the wise duck says, ‘No, let’s try her out on the hill,’ so that’s all off. So I decides I’ll try to rush the hill, an’ trust to prayer an’ luck, when flap-flap-flap somethin’ begins goin’, on her right hind leg.

      “‘What’s that?’ asks the w. d., anxious.

      “‘Oh, nothin’,’ says I, easy-like. ‘She’s maybe picked up a piece o’ hoop, or a lath, or somethin’.’

      “‘Better stop an’ have a look, hadn’t you?’

      “I’m sweatin’ blood. If I stop, I can’t never make that hill, an’ if I don’t, Lord knows what’ll bust. I takes chances—there ain’t nothin’ else to do—an’ charges the hill. Man! How noble old Liz answers me! Up an’ over she goes, full lung-power, an’ straightens out on the level again. Whew! But there’s more sweat on my manly brow than what the thermome­ter could account for!”

      “You had a hard time disposing of your bunch of fossilized pig-iron, on a guarantee to return the money if not as represented, didn’t you?” inquired the gentleman with the horn glasses, a bit cynically. “Your narrative interests me, decidedly. What happened next?”

      “Next? Oh, after we’re over the top, I stops Liz on a good startin’ grade, jumps out, an’ finds one tire’s gettin’ ready to lay down on the job an’ die. There’s a long strip o’ rubber, loose, that’s been whackin’ against the mudguard. I yanks it off, drops it in the road an’ climbs back, smilin’, though my heart’s half-dead, ’cause that there tire’s liable to blow worse ’n a whale, any old time, an’ I got no spare.

      “‘Well, what was it?’ asks the w. d.

      “‘Oh, nothin’—piece of a barrel-hoop,’ says I.

      “‘Puncture?’

      “‘Naw! These here tires is puncture-proof, anyhow,’ I says, an’ away we slides, again. But all the time I’m watchin’ the speedometer careful an’ anxious, ’cause if my five miles o’ gas runs out, I’m done. So, pretty soon, I rounds back towards town, again. An’ now Liz begins to skip. Three’s all she’ll hit on.

      “‘Hello,’ says the w. d. ‘What now?’

      “‘Nothin’ at all.’ I assures him, smilin’ confidential. ‘Dirty plug. That don’t signify. Ain’t been cleaned in six months. She’s some