spark right." When I'd grow dizzy with these explanations he
would reassure me by saying that "I'd soon fall into it, like he
did." But I didn't fall into it nearly so well as I could have
wished. On the contrary, the more I learned the more intricate
the whole thing seemed to grow, and I looked forward to taking
the car out alone by myself with the sensations of a prisoner
about to be guillotined. Not that I had lost heart in
automobilism. The elation of those rides was delicious. The
little car ran with a lightness that was almost like flying; it
was as buoyant, swift and smooth as a glorified sledge; one awoke
with joy to the fact that the world contained a new and
irresistible pleasure.

The Gasoline Child soon taught me to run it for myself. With him
by my side I was as brave as a lion, and I took the corners and
shaved eternity in a way to make him gasp. He said he had never
been really scared in an automobile before, and he used to look
at me with a ready-to-jump expression, as though I were a baby
playing with a gun. You see, I had graduated on Lewis Wentz's
steamer and a twenty-mile clip didn't feaze me any, though there
were times when I'd forget which things to pull, and this always
seemed to rattle his little nerves. It was strange, however, what
a coward I was when I first went out by myself. There was no
devil left in me at all, and I was certainly the crawly-crawliest
bubbler you ever saw, and I teetered at street-car crossings till
everybody went mad. It might have been worse than it was,
though, for the only real trouble I had was chipping the tail
off a milk wagon and ramming a silly horse on Eighth Avenue.
When his friends helped him up (he had been standing still at the
time, and I had forgotten the low gear always started with a