 Chapter 1 of Free Air. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Free Air by Sinclair Lewis. Chapter 1. Miss Boltwood of Brooklyn is Lost in the Mud. When the windshield was closed, it became so filmed with rain, that Claire fancied she was piloting a drowned car in dim spaces under the sea. When it was open, drops jabbed into her eyes and chilled her cheeks. She was excited and thoroughly miserable. She realized that these Minnesota country roads had no respect for her polite experience on Long Island Parkways. She felt like a woman, not a driver. But the Gomez-Depth Roadster had 70 horsepower and sang songs. Since she had left Minneapolis, nothing had passed her. Back yonder, a truck had tried to crowd her, and she had dropped into a ditch, climbed a bank, returned to the road, and after that the truck was not. Now she was regarding a view more splendid than mountains above a garden by the sea, a stretch of good road. To her passenger, her father, Claire chanted, Heavenly, there's some gravel. We can make time. We'll hustle on to the next town and get dry. Yes, but don't mind me. You're doing very well, her father sighed. Instantly, the dismay of it rushing at her, she saw the end of the patch of gravel. The road ahead was a wet black smear. Chris crossed with ruts. The car shot into a morass of prairie gumbo, which is mud mixed with tar, flypaper, fish glue, and well-chewed chocolate-covered caramels. When cattle get into gumbo, the farmer sent for the stump dynamite and tribe blasting. It was her first really bad stretch of road. She was frightened. Then she was too appallingly busy to be frightened, or to be Miss Claire Boltwood, or to comfort her uneasy father. She had to drive her frail, graceful arms, put into it a vicious vigor that was genius. When the wheels struck the slime, they slid, they wallowed. The car skidded. It was terrifyingly out of control. It began majestically to turn toward the ditch. She fought the steering wheel as though she were shadowboxing, but the car kept contemptuously staggering until it was sideways, straight across the road. Somehow it was back again, eating into a rut, going ahead. She didn't know how she had done it, but she had got it back. She longed to take time to retrace her own cleverness in steering. She didn't. She kept going. The car backfired, slowed. She yanked the gear from third into first. She sped up. The motor ran like a terrified pounding heart on the car, crept on by inches through filthy mud that stretched ahead of her without relief. She was battling to hold the car in the principal rut. She snatched the windshield open and concentrated on that left rut. She felt that she was keeping the wheel from climbing those high sides of the rut, those six inch walls of mud, sparkling with tiny grits. Her mind snarled at her arms. Let the ruts do the skeering. You're just fighting against them. It worked. Once she let the wheels alone, they comfortably followed the purrows. And for three seconds, she had that delightful belief of every motorist after every mishap. Now that this particular disagreeableness is over, I'll never, never have any trouble again. But suppose the engine overheated, ran out of water, anxiety twined at her nerves, and the deep distinctive ruts were changing to a complex pattern like the rails in a city switchyard. She picked out the track of one motor car that had been through here recently. It was marked with a swastika tread of the rear tires. That track was her friend. She knew and loved the driver of a car she had never seen in her life. She was very tired. She wondered if she might not stop for a moment. Then she came to an upslope. The car faltered, felt indecisive beneath her. She jabbed down the accelerator. Her hands pushed the steering wheel as though she were pushing the car. The engine picked up. Soak a leg kept going. To the eye there was merely a rise in the rolling ground, but to her anxiety it was a mountain, up which she, not the engine, but herself, pulled this bulky mass till she had reached the top and was safe again for a second. Still there was no visible end of the mud. In alarm she thought, how long does it last? I can't keep this up. The guiding tread of the previous car was suddenly lost in a mass of heaving, bubble-scattered mud like a batter of black dough. She fairly picked up the car and flung it into that welter through it and back into the reappearing swastika mud trail. Her father spoke. You're biting your lips. They'll bleed if you don't look out. Better stop and rest. No bottom to this mud. Once stop and lose momentum stuck for keeps, she had ten more minutes of it before she reached a combination of bridge and culvert with a plank platform above a big tile drain. With this solid plank bottom she could stop. Silence came roaring down as she turned the switch. The bubbling water and the radiator steamed about the cap. Thoughtness of the cords of her neck in front of a pain at the base of her brain. Her father glanced at her curiously. I must be a wreck. I'm sure my hair is frightful, she thought, but forgot it as she looked at him. His face was unusually pale. In the tumult of activity he had been betrayed into letting the old despondent look blur his eyes and sag his mouth. Must get on, she determined. Claire was dainty of habit. She detested untwisted hair, ripped gloves, muddy shoes. Hesitant as a cat by a puddle she stepped down on the bridge. Even on these planks the mud was three inches thick. It squished about her low spattered shoes. Eh, she squeaked. She tiptoed to the toolbox and took out a folding canvas bucket. She edged down to the trickling stream below. She was miserably conscious of a pastoral scene all gone to mildew. Cows beneath willows by the creek, milkweeds dripping, dried mulling weed stalks no longer dry. The bank of the stream was so slippery that she shot down two feet and nearly went sprawling. Her knee did touch the bank and the skirt of her gray sports suit showed a smear of yellow earth. In less than two miles the racing motor had used up so much water that she had to make four trips to the creek before she had filled the radiator. When she had climbed back on the running board she'd glared down at spats and shoes turned into gray lumps. She was not careful. She was angry. Idiot! ought to have put on my rubbers. Well, too late now she observed and she started the engine. She again followed the swastika tread. To avoid a hole in the road ahead the unknown driver had swung over to the side of the road and taken the intensely black earth of the edge of an unfenced cornfield. Fleshing at Claire came the sight of a deep water-filled hole scattered straw and brush, debris of a battlefield which made her gaspingling realize that her swastika leader had been stuck and and instantly her own car was stuck. She had had to put the car at that hole. It dropped far down and it stayed down. The engine stalled. She started it but the back wheels spun merrily round and round without traction. She did not make one inch. When she again killed the blatting motor she let it stay dead. She peered at her father. He was not a father just now but a passenger trying not to irritate the driver. He smiled in a waxy way and said, hard luck. Well, you did the best you could. The other hole there in the road would have been just as bad. You're a fine driver, Dolly. Her smile was warm and real. No, I'm a fool. You told me to put on chains. I didn't. I deserve it. Well anyway, most men would be cussing. You acquire merit by not beating me. I believe that's done in moments like this. If you'd like, I'll get out and crawl around in the mud No, I'm quite all right. I did feel frightfully strong-minded as long as there was any use of it. It kept me going. But now I might just as well be cheerful because we're stuck and we're probably going to stay stuck for the rest of this carefree summer day. The weariness of the long strain caught her all at once. She slipped forward, sat huddled, her knees crossed under the edge of the steering wheel, her hands falling beside her, her faint brushing sound as it slid down the upholstery. Her eyes closed. As her head drooped further, she fancied she could hear the vertebra click in her tense neck. Her father was a silent, a misty figure in a laprobe. The rain streaked the Michaelites in the side curtains. A distant train whistled desolately across the sodden fields. The inside of the car smelled musty. The quiet was like a blanket of tears. Claire was in a hazy drowse. She felt that she could never drive again. End of chapter one. Chapter two of Free Air. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Hollis Hanover. Free Air by Sinclair Lewis. Chapter two. Claire escapes from respectability. Claire Boltwood lived on the heights Brooklyn. Persons from New York and other parts of the Middle West have been known to believe that Brooklyn is somehow humorous. In newspaper jokes in Vaudeville, it is so presented that people who are willing to take their philosophy from those sources believe that the leading citizens of Brooklyn are all deacons, undertakers, and obstetricians. The fact is that in Washington Square, at its reddest and whitest and fan-lightedest, Gramercy Park at its most ivy, are not so aristocratic as the section of Brooklyn called the Heights. Here preached Henry Ward Beecher. Here, in mansions like mausoleums on the ridge above Docks where the good ships came sailing in from Surabaya and Singapore, hundreds of a thousand sails. And still it is a place of wealth too solid to emulate the nimble self-advertising of Fifth Avenue. Here dwell the fifth generation possessors of blocks of foundries and shipyards. Here, in a big brick house of much dignity, much ugliness and much conservatory, lived Claire Boltwood with her widower father. Henry B. Boltwood was the first president of a firm dealing in railway supplies. He was neither wealthy nor at all poor. Every summer, despite Claire's delicate hints, they took the same cottage on the Jersey Coast, and Mr. Boltwood came down for Sunday. Claire had gone to a good school out of Philadelphia on the main line. She was used to gracious leisure, attractive uselessness, and why she was alive. She wanted to travel, but her father could not get away. He consistently spent his days in overworking and his evenings in wishing he hadn't overworked. He was attractive, fresh, pink-cheeked, white-mustached, and nerve-twitching with years of detail. Claire's ambition had once been babies and a solid husband. But as various young males of the species appeared before her, sang their mating songs, and preened their newly dry-cleaned plumage, she found that the trouble with solid young men was that they were solid. Though she liked to dance, the dancing men bored her. And she did not understand the district's quota of intellectuals very well. She was good at listening to symphony concerts, but she never had much luck in discussing the cleverness of the woodwinds It is history that she refused a Master of Arts with an old violin, a good taste in ties, and an income of eight thousand. The only man who disturbed her was Jeffrey Saxton, known throughout the interwoven sets of Brooklyn Heights as Jeff. Jeff Saxton was 39 to Claire's 23. He was clean and busy. He had no signs of vice or of humor, especially for Jeff, must have been invented the symbolic morning coat, the unwrinklable gray trousers, and the moral rimless spectacles. He was a graduate of a nice college, and he had a nice tenor and a nice family, and nice hands, and he was nicely successful in New York copper dealing. When he was asked questions by people who were impertinent, he would come over coldly before he answered, and often they felt so uncomfortable that he didn't have to answer. The boys of Claire's own age, not long out of Yale and Princeton, doing well in business and jumping for their evening clothes daily at 6.30, lighter loves and admirers of athletic heroes, these lads Claire found pleasant, but hard to tell apart. She didn't have to tell Jeff Jeff called, not too often, he sang, not too sentimentally. He took her father and herself to the theater, not too lavishly. He told Claire, in a voice not too serious, that she was his helmed Athena, his Rose of all the world. He informed her of his substantial position, not too obviously, and he was so everlastingly firmly, quietly, politely, immovably, always there. She watched the hulk of marriage drifting down on her frail speedboat of aspiration and steered in desperate circles. Then her father got the nervous frustration he had britchely earned. The doctor ordered rest. Claire took him in charge. He didn't want to travel, certainly he didn't want the shore of the Adirondacks, the branch of his company in Minneapolis. She lured him that far away. Being rootedly of Brooklyn Heights, Claire didn't know much about the West. She thought that Milwaukee was the capital of Minnesota. She was not so uninformed as some of her friends, however. She had heard that in Dakota wheat was to be viewed in vast tracts, maybe a hundred acres. Mr. Boatwood could not beat the people to whom his Minneapolis representative introduced him. He was overworking again and perfectly happy. He was hoping to find something wrong with the branch house. Claire tried to tempt him out to the lakes. She failed. His nerve cues burnt out the second time with much fireworks. Claire had often managed her circle of girls, but it had never occurred to her to manage her executive father, saved by indirect and pretty teasing. Now in conspiracy with the doctor she bullied her father. He saw gray death waiting as alternative, and he was meek. He agreed to everything. He consented to drive with her across 2,000 miles of plains and mountains to Seattle to drop in for a call on their cousins, the Eugene Gilsons. Back east they had a chauffeur and two cars. The limousine and the Gomez de-producin Roadster. Claire's beloved. It would, she believed, be more of a change from everything that Mike whispered to Mr. Boatwood of the control of men, not to take a chauffeur. Her father never drove, but she could, she insisted. His easy agreeing was pathetic. He watched her with spaniel eyes. They had the Gomez Roadster shipped to them from New York. On a July morning they started out of Minneapolis in a mist, and as it has been hinted, they stopped 60 miles northward in a rain, also in much gumbo. Apparently their nearest approach to the Pacific Ocean would be this oceanically moist edge of a cornfield between Shaw & Strom and Gopher Prairie, Minnesota. Claire roused from her damp doze and side. Well, I must get busy and get the car out of this. Don't you think you'd better get somebody to help us? But get who? Whom? No, it's just who when you're out in the mud. No, one of the good things about an adventure like this is that I must do things for myself. I've always had people do things for me. Mades and nice teachers. You, old darling. I suppose it's made me soft. Soft. I would like a soft Davenport in a novel and a pound of almond griddle and get all sick and not feel so beastly virile as I do right now, but she turned up the collar of her gray tweed coat, painfully climbed out the muscles of her back racking and examined the state of the rear wheels. In front of them the mud bulked in solid, shiny blackness. She took out her jack and chains. It was too late. There was no room to get the jack under the axle. She remembered from the narratives of motoring friends that brush in mud gave a firmer surface for the wheels to climb upon. She also remembered how jolly and agreeably heroic the accounts of their mishaps a week after they were over. She waited down the road toward an old woodlot. At first she tried to keep dry, but she gave it up and there was pleasure in being defiantly dirty. She trapped through puddles. She wallowed in mud. In the woodlot was long grass which soaked her stockings till her ankles felt itchy. Claire had never expected to be so very intimate as she became so. As though she were a pioneer woman who had been toiling here for years she came to know the brush stick by stick. The long, valuable branch that she could never quite get out from under the others. The thorny bow that pricked her hands every time she tried to reach the curious bundle of switches. Seven trips she made carrying armfuls of twigs and solemnly dragging large bowels behind her. She added them down in front of all four wheels. Her crisp hands looked like the paws of a three-year-old boy making a mud fort. Her nails hurt from the mud wedged beneath them. Her mud-caped shoes were heavy to lift. It was with exquisite self-approval that she sat on the running board, scraped a carload of lignite off her soles, climbed back into the car and punched the starter. The car stirred, crept forward one inch, and settled back one inch. The second time it heaved encouragingly, but did not make quite so much headway. Then Claire did sob. She rubbed her cheek against the comfortable, rough, leather-smelling shoulder of her father's coat while he patted her and smiled. Good girl, I better get out and get help. She sat straight, shook her head. Nope, I'll do it. And I'm not going to insist on being heroic any longer. I'll get a farmer to pull us out. As she let herself down into the ooze, she reflected that all farmers have hearts of gold. Anatomical phenomena never found among the snobs and hirelings in New York. The nearest heart of gold was presumably beating warmly in the house a quarter of a mile ahead. She came up to a muddy lane to a muddy farm yard with a muddy cur yapping at her wet legs and geese hissing in a pool of purest mud serene. The house was small and rather old. It may have been painted once. The barn was large and new. It had been painted very much and in a blinding red with white trimmings. There was no brass plate on the house but on the barn in huge white letters was the legend Zolzak 1913. She climbed by long steps to a narrow frame-back porch littered with parts of a broken cream separator. She told herself that she was simple and friendly in going to the back door instead of the front. And it was with gaiety that she knocked on the ill-jointed screen door which flapped dismally in response. Yah from within. She wrapped again. Hinay She opened the door on a kitchen, the highlight of which was a table heaped with dishes of dumplings and salt-port. A shirt-sleeved man all covered with moustache and comb sat by the table and he kept right on sitting as he inquired. Well, my car, my automobile has been stuck in the mud of a head-driver, I'm afraid. I wonder if you would be so good as to I usually get three dollars but I don't know as I've ought to do it for less than four. Today I aim to feel in very good grumbled the gold and hearted. Claire was aware that a woman whom she had not noticed so much smaller than the dumplings so much less vigorous than the salt-port was she was speaking. Aber Papa, that's a shame. You charged a poor young lady when she drove by herself? What she think of the Sherman people? The farmer merely granted to Claire, yeah, four dollars, that's what I usually charge sometimes. Usually, do you mean to say that you leave that hole there in the road right along? That people keep on trying to avoid it and get stuck as I was if I were an official? Well, I don't know. I don't guess I run my place to suit you, smart Alex. Papa, how you talk on the young lady? Make shame. From the city if you don't like it, you stay by Minneapolis. I haul you out for three dollars and a half. Everybody pay dot. Last month I make forty-five dollars. They fuss all glad to pay. They say I helped them find. I don't see what you're kicking about. Oh, these women's. It's blackmail. I wouldn't pay it if it weren't for my father sitting waiting out there. But go ahead, hurry. She sat tapping her toe while Zolzak completed the sturtorious task of hogging the dumplings. Ben stretched, yawned, scratched, and covered his merely dirty garments with overalls that were apparently woven of process mud. When he had gone to the barn for his team, his wife came to Claire. On her drained face were the easy tears of the slave women. Oh, miss, I don't know what I should do. My boys go on the public school and they speak American just so good as you. Oh, I want man lets me love America, but Papa he says it is an un-sin. You got money he says nobody should care if you are American or old country people. I should wish I could ride once in an automobile. But I am so ashamed, so ashamed that I must sit and see my man make this. Forty years I've been married to him and pretty soon I die. Claire padded her hand. There was nothing to say to tragedy that had outlived hope. Adolf Zolzak clumped out to the high road behind his vast rolling flank horses so much cleaner and better fed than his wisp of a wife. Claire followed him and in her heart she committed murder and was glad of it. While Mr. Boltwood looked out with mild wonder at Claire's new friend, Zolzak hitched his team to the axle. It did not seem possible that two horses could pull out the car where seventy horsepower had fainted. But easily yawning and thinking about dinner the horses drew the wheels up on the mud bank and the harness broke with a flying mess of straps and ropes, and the car plumped with perfect exactness back into its bed. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of Free Air This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Free Air by Sinclair Lewis Chapter 3 A Young Man in a Raincoat Huh! Such an auto! Look! It break my harness already! $2 that cost you to mend it! The auto is too heavy! stormed Zolzak. All right, all right! Only for heaven's sakes go get another harness! Claire shrieked. $5.50 will be in all, Zolzak grinned. Claire was standing in front of him. She was thinking of other drivers, people in old cars who had been at the mercy of this golden-hearted one. She stared past him in the direction from which she had come. Another motor was in sight. It was a tin beetle of a car that agile, cheerful, rut-jumping model known as a bug with a home-tacked, home-painted tin cowl and tail covering the striped chasis of a little cheap teal car. The lone driver wore an old black raincoat with an atrocious corduroy collar and a new plaid cap in the hairy, louder tartan. The bug skipped through mud where the boltwood's Gomez had slogged and rolled. Its pilot drove up behind her car and leaped out. He trotted forward to Claire and Zolzak. His eyes were 27 or 8, but his pink cheeks were 20. And when he smiled, shyly, he was no age at all, but an eternal boy. Claire had a blurred impression that she had seen him before, some place along the road. Stuck, he inquired, not very intelligently, how much is Adolf charging you? He wants 350 and his harness broke and he wants $2. Oh, so he's still working that old gang. I've heard all about Adolf. He keeps that harness for pulling out cars, but last time, though, he only charged six bits to get it mended. Now, let me reason with him. The young man turned with vicious quickness, and for the first time, Claire heard Pidgin, German. German as it is spoken between Americans who have never learned it and Germans who have forgotten it. Schoensex, 100 times ich höre all about the way you have been doing unto Zolzak, look to Schreinhund, and I'll set the sheriff on you. That ain't true. Maybe, einmal die Woche kommt, somebody, und ich muss die Arbeit immer lassen und in die Regen ausgehen und seht mal, how the boots covered $2, it don't pay for the boots. Now, that's plenty and enough out of you. Seien die boots, verdammet, und Mock das du Fort Geist, muddy boots, hell, put my lying egg in the boots and beat it, very light. Maybe I'll by golly arrest you myself. Weiss du, I'm a special deputy sheriff. The young man stood stockily. He seemed to swell as his somewhat muddy hand was shaken directly at, under, and about the circumference of, Adolf Zolzak's hairy nose. The farmer was stronger, but he retreated. He took up the reins. He whined, Don't I get nothing I break the harness? Sure, you get ten years, and you get out. From thirty yards up the road, Zolzak flung back. You think you're pretty damn smart. That was his last serious reprisal. Clumsily, as one not used to it, the young man lifted his cap to Claire, straight, wiry, rope-colored air, brushed straight back from a rather fine forehead. Gee, I was sorry to have to swear and holler like that, but it's all Adolf understands. Please don't think there's many of the folks around here like him. They say he's the meanest man in the county. I'm immensely grateful to you, but do you know much about motors? How can I get out of this mud? She was surprised to see the youngster blush. His clear skin flooded, his engaging smile came out again, and he hesitated, Let me pull you out. She looked from her hulking car to his mechanical flea. He answered back, I can do it all right. I'm used to the gumbo, regular mud hen. Just add my power to yours. Have you a tow rope? No, I never thought of bringing one. I'd been so happy to have a tow rope with him back toward his bug. It lacked not only top and side curtains, but even windshield and running board. It was a toy. A cardboard box on toothpick axles. Strap to the bulging back was a wicker suitcase partly covered by tarpaulin. From the seat appeared a little furry face. A cat, she exclaimed as he came up with a wire rope, extracted from the tin back. Yes, she's the captain of the boat. I'm just the engineer. What is her name? Before he answered, the young man strode ahead to the front of her car. Claire obediently trotting after him. He stooped to look at her front axle. He raised his head, glanced at her, and he was blushing again. Her name is Vera de Verre, he confessed. Then he fled back to his bug. He drove it in front of the Gomez dep. The hole in the road itself was as deep as the one on the edge of the cornfield where she was stuck. But he charged it. She was fascinated by his skill. Where she would for a tenth of a second have hesitated while choosing the best course, he hurled the bug straight at the hole, plunged through with sheets of glossy black water arching on either side, then viciously twisted the car to the right, to the left, and straight again as he followed the tracks with the solidest bottoms. Strapped above the tiny angle iron step which replaced his running board was an old spade. He dug channels in front of the four wheels of her car so that they might go up inclines instead of pushing against the straight walls of mud he had thrown up. On these inclines he strewed the brush she had brought, halting to ask with head alertly lifted from his stooped huddle in the mud, did you have to get this yourself? Yes, horrid wet. He merely shook his head in commiseration. He fastened the tow-rope to the rear axle of his car, to the front of hers. Now will you be ready to put on all your power as I begin to pull? He said casually, rather respectfully. When the struggling bug had pulled the wire rope taut, she opened the throttle. The rope trembled. Her car seemed to draw sullenly back. Then it came out, really out, which is the most joyous sensation any motorist shall ever know. An excitement over actually moving again as fast as any healthy young snail, she drove on, on. The young man ahead, grinning back at her. Nor did she stop, nor he, till both cars were safe on the merely thick mud a quarter of a mile away. She switched off the power and suddenly she was in a whirlwind of dizzy, sickening tiredness. Even in her abandonment to exhaustion, she noticed that the young man did not stare at her, but, keeping his back to her, removed the tow-rope and stowed it away in his bug. She wondered whether it was tacked, or yokelish, indifference. Her father spoke for the first time since the gala hat of the tin bug had come. How much do you think we ought to know? Of all the cosmic problems yet unsolved, not cancer nor the future of poverty are the flustering questions, but these twain, which is worse, not to wear evening clothes at a party at which you find everyone else dressed, or to come in evening clothes to a house where it proves they're never worn, and which is worse, not to tip when a tip has been or to tip when the tip is an insult. In discomfort of spirit and wetness of ankles, Clare shuddered, oh, dear, I don't believe he expects us to pay him. He seems like an awfully independent person. Maybe we defend him if we offered. The only reasonable thing to be offended at in this veil of tears is not being offered money. Just the same. Oh, dear, I'm so tired, but good little Clare will climb out and be diplomatic. She pinched her forehead to hold in her crackling brain and wobbled out into new scenes of mud and wetness. But she came up to the young man with the most rain-washed and careless of smiles. Won't you come back and meet my father? He's terribly grateful to you, as I am. And may we—you've worked so hard and about saved our lives. May I pay you for that labor? We're really much indebted. Oh, it wasn't anything. Tickle to death if I could help you. He heartily shook hands with her father, and he droned, pleased to meet you, Mr. Boltwood. Mr. Boltwood. My name is Milt. Milt and Daggett. See, you have a New York license on your car. We don't see but mighty few of those through here. Glad I could help you. Ah, yes, Mr. Daggett. Mr. Boltwood was restedly fumbling in his money-pocket. Behind Milt Dagget Claire shook her head wildly, rattling her hands as though she were playing castanets. Mr. Boltwood shrugged. He did not understand. His relations with young men in cheap raincoats were entirely monetary. They did something for you, and you paid them. Preferably not too much. And they ceased to be. Whereas Milt Daggett respectfully but solidly continued to be. And Mr. Henry Boltwood's own daughter was halting the march of affairs by asking irrelevant questions. Didn't we see you back in what was that village we came through back about twelve miles? Shone Strong? Suggested Milt. Yes, I think that was it. Didn't we pass you or something? We stopped at a garage there to change a tire. I don't think so. I was in town, though, this morning and, say, did you and your father grab any eats? I mean, did you get dinner there? No, I wish we had. Well, say, I didn't either. And I'd be awfully glad if you folks would have something to eat with me now. Clare tried to give him a smile, but the best she could do was to lend him one. She could not associate interesting food with Milt and his mud-slobbered tin-covered, done-painted, teal-bug. He seemed satisfied with her dubious grimace. By his suggestion they drove ahead to a spot where the cars could be parked on firm grass beneath oaks. On the way Mr. Boltwood lifted his voice in dismay. His touch of nervous prostration had not made him queer or violent. He retained a touching faith in good food. We might find some good little hotel and have some chops and just some mushrooms and peas. I don't suppose the country hotels are really so awfully good, she speculated. And look! That nice, funny boy. We couldn't hurt his feelings. He's having so much fun out of being a good Samaritan. From the mysterious, rounded back of his car Milt Daggett drew a tiny stove to be heated by a can of solidified alcohol. A frying pan that was rather large for dolls but rather small for square-fingered hands. A jar of bacon, eggs in a bag, a coffee pot, a can of condensed milk and a litter of unsorted tin plates and china cups. While, by his request, Claire scoured the plates and cups, he made bacon and eggs and coffee. The little stove in the bottom of his car sheltered by the cooks bending over it. The smell of food made Claire forgiving toward the fact that she was wet through. The rain continued to drizzle down her neck. He lifted his hand and demanded, take your shoes off. Huh? He gulped. He stammered. I mean, your shoes are soaked through. If you sit in the car, I'll put your shoes up by the engine. It's pretty well heated from racing it in the mud. You can get your stockings dry under the cow. She was amused by the elaborateness with which he didn't glance at her while she took off her low shoes and slipped her quite too thin black stockings under the protecting tin cow. She reflected, he has such a good, nice, awkward gentleness, but such bad taste. They're really good ankles. Apparently ankles are not done in teal-bug circles. His sisters didn't even have limbs. But do fairies have sisters? He is a fairy. When I'm out of the mud, he'll turn his raincoat into a pair of lordly white wings and vanish. But what will become of the cat? Thus her tired brain. Like a squirrel in a revolving cage while she sat primly and scraped at a clot of rust on a tin plate and watched him put on the bacon and eggs. Wondering if cats were used for this purpose in the Daggett family, she put soaked, unhappy, ver-de-ver on her feet to her own great comfort and the cat's delight. It was an open car and still rained and a strange young man was afoot from her tending the not very crackly fire but rarely had Claire felt so domestic. Mil was apparently struggling to say something. After several bobs at his head he ventured, You're so wet. I'd like for you to take my raincoat. No, really. I'm already soaked through. You keep dry. He was unhappy about it. He plucked at a button of the coat. He turned him from the subject. I hope Lady Ver-de-ver is getting warm too. Seems to be. She's kind of demanding. She wanted a little car of her own but I didn't think she could keep up with me. Not on a long hike. A little car with her paws on the tiny wheel? Oh, sweet. Are you going far, Mr. Daggett? Yes, quite a ways. To Seattle, Washington. Oh, really? Extraordinary. We're going there too. Are you driving all the way? Oh, no, of course, your father. No, he doesn't drive. By the way, I hope he isn't too miserable back there. I'll be darned. Both of us going to Seattle. That's what they call a coincidence, isn't it? Hope I'll see you on the road some time. But I don't suppose I will. Once you're out of the mud, your Gomez will simply lose my teal. Not necessarily. You're the better driver. And I shall take it easy. In Seattle, it was not merely a polite dinner payment question. She wondered, she could not place this fresh cheek to unworldly young man so far from his home. Well, I kind of hope. Government Railroad, Alaska. I'm going to try to get in on that somehow. I've never been out of Minnesota in my life. But there's a couple mountains and oceans and things I thought I'd like to see. So I just put my suitcase and ver de ver in the machine and started out. I burned distillate instead of gas, so it doesn't cost much. If I ever happened to have five whole dollars, why I might go on to Japan, that would be jolly. Though I suppose I'd have to eat. What is it? Pickled fish? There's a woman from near my town went to the Orient as a missionary. From what she says, I guess all you need in Japan to make a house is a bottle of mucilage and a couple of old newspapers and some two-by-fours. Cherry trees down below. And he put clenched hands to his lips. His head was bowed. And the ocean. Lord the ocean. And we'll see it at Seattle. Bay, anyway. And steamers there just come from India. Getting pretty darn poetic here. Eggs are done. The young man did not again wander in divisions. He was all briskness as he served her bacon and eggs. Took a plate of them to Mr. Boltwood and gouged into his own. Having herself scoured the tin plates, Clare was not repulsed by their naked tininess. And the coffee in the broken-handled China cup was tolerable. Milt drank from the top of a vacuum bottle. He was silent. Immediately after the lunch he stowed the things away. Clare expected a drawn-out, tact-demanding farewell. But he climbed into his bug, and Mr. Boltwood, good luck, and was gone. The rainy road was bleakly empty without him. It did not seem possible that Clare's body could be nagged into going on any longer. Her muscles were relaxed. Her nerves frayed. But the moment the Gomez started she discovered that magic change which every long-distance motorist knows. Instantly she was alert. Seemingly able to drive forever. The pilot's instinct ruled her. Gave her tireless eyes and sturdy hands. Surely she had never been weary. Never would be. So long as it was hers to keep the car going. She had driven perhaps six miles when she reached a hamlet called St. Kloppstock. On the bedraggled mud and shanty main street a man was loading crushed rock into a truck. By him was a large person in a prosperous raincoat who stepped out and held up his hand. Clare stopped. You the young lady that got stuck in that hole by Adolf Zolzak's? Yes, and Mr. Zolzak wasn't very nice about it. He's going to be just elegant about it now and there ain't going to be any more hole. I think Adolf has been keeping it muddy throwing in soft dirt and he made a good and plenty lot out of pulling out tourists. He's going down right now and fill it up with stone. Milt Dagg had come through here. He's got a nerve that fellow but I did have to laugh. He says to me, Barney this was just now. He hadn't more than just drove out of town. He said to me, Barney he says, you're the richest man in this township and the banker and you got a big car yourself and you think you're one whale to maintain a private ocean against the peace and damned horrible inconvenience of a commonwealth of Minnesota. He's got a great line of talk that fellow. He told me how you got stuck made me so ashamed. I had been to New York myself and right away I got Bill and we're going down and hold a donation and surprise party on Adolf and fill that hole. But won Adolf take it out again? The banker was puffy but his eyes were of stone. He drawled. In that case the surprise party will include an elegant wake. But how did? Who is this extraordinary milk-daggot? Him? Oh, nobody especially. He's just a fellow down here strong and strong. But we all know him. Goes to all the dances 30 miles around. Thing about him is if he sees something wrong he picks out some poor fellow like me and says what he thinks. She was aware that she was looking for Miltsbug. It was not in sight. Father, she exclaimed, do you realize that this lad didn't tell us he was going to have the hole filled? Just did it. He frightens me. I'm afraid that when we reach Gopher Prairie for the night we'll find he has engaged us for the sweet that Prince Collars and Cuffs once slept in. Y'all and her father. Curious young man he said pleased to meet you. Fresh air makes me so sleepy. And fooled you got through that mud hole anyway. And he said, look, fields stretch out here so not a tree except the willow groves around those farmhouses. And he said, gee, so many times and dinner for the noon meal. And his nails. Now I suppose he really is just a farm youngster. Mr. Boltwood did not answer. His machine-finished smile indicated an enormous lack of interest in young men in teal bugs. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Of Free Air This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Free Air by Sinclair Lewis. Chapter 4 A Room Without Gopher Prairie has all of five thousand people. Its commercial club asserts that it has at least a thousand more population and an infinitely better band than the ridiculously envious neighboring town of Geroilam. But there were few signs that a suite had been engaged for the Boltwoods or that Prince Collars and Cuffs had on his royal tour of America spent much time in Gopher Prairie. Claire reached it somewhat before seven. She gaped at it in a hazy way. Though this was her first prairie town for a considerable stay, she could not pump up interest. The state of mind of the touring motorist entering a strange place at night is as peculiar and definite as that of a prospector. It is compounded of gratitude at having got safely in of perception of a new town all eagerness about new things doled by weariness of hope that there is going to be a good hotel but small expectation and absolutely no probability that there really will be one. Claire had only a blotched impression of peaked wooden buildings in squatty brick stores with faded awnings of a red grain elevator and a crouching station in the lumberyard, then of the hopelessly muddy road leading on again into the country. She felt that if she didn't stop at once, she would miss the town entirely. The driving instinct sustained her. Made her take corners sharply, spot a garage, send the Gomez whirling in on the cement floor. The garage attendant looked at her and yawned. Where do you want the car, Claire asked sharply. Oh, stick it in that stall, run into man, and turned his back. Claire glowered at him. She thought of a good line about but oh, she was too tired to fuss. She tried to run the car into the empty stall which was not a stall but a space like a missing tooth between two cars and so narrow that she was afraid of crumpling the lordly fenders of the Gomez. She ran down the floor, returned with a flourish, thought she was going to back straight into the stall and found she wasn't. While her nerves shrieked and it did not seem possible to get the gears, she managed to get the Gomez behind the truck and side on to the stall. Go forward again and cramp your wheel. Sharp! ordered the garage man. Claire wanted to outline what she thought of him but she merely demanded, will you kindly drive it in? Well, I sure you bet, said the man casually. His readiness ruined her inspired fury. She was somewhat disappointed. As she climbed out of the car and put a hand on the smart bag strapped on a running board, the accumulated weariness struck her in a shock. She could have driven on for hours, but the instant the car was safe for the night she went to pieces. Her ears rang, her eyes were soaked in fire, her mouth was dry, the back of her neck pinched. It was her father who took the lead as they rambled to the one tolerable hotel in the town. In the hotel Claire was conscious of the employees in green walls and brass cuspidors and insurance calendars and the bare floor of the office conscious of the interesting scientific fact that all air had been replaced by the essence of cigar smoke and cooking cabbage of the stairs of the traveling men lounging in board lines and of the lack of welcome on the part of the night clerk an oldish, bleached man with whiskers instead of a collar. She tried to be important. Two rooms with the bath, please. The bleached man stared at her and shoved forward the register and a pin clotted with ink. She signed. He took the bags, led the way to the stairs. Anxiously she asked both rooms are with bath. From the second step the night clerk looked down at her as though she were a specimen that ought to be pinned on the corks at once proudly. No, ma'am. Neither of them. Got no rooms vacant with bath or bath, either. Not that what we got him in the house this is an up-to-date place. But one of them took and the other has been kind of out of order the last three months from the audience of drummers below. A delicate giggle. Clare was too angry to answer and too tired. When, after miles of stairs her coop with its iron bed so loose-jointed that it rattled to a breath, its bureau with a list to port and its anemic rocking chair, she dropped on the bed panting. Her eyes closed but still brimming with fire. It did not seem that she could ever move again. She felt chloroformed. She couldn't even coax herself off the bed to see if her father was any better off in the next room. She was certain that she was not going to drive anywhere. She was going to freight the car back to Minneapolis and herself go back by train. Pullman, drawing room. But for the thought of her father she would have fallen asleep in her drenched tweeds. When she did force the energy to rise she had to support herself by the bureau, by the foot of the bed as she moved about the room, hanging up the wetsuit, rubbing herself with a slippery towel with silk frock and pumps. She found her father sitting motionless in his room, staring at the wall. She made herself laugh at him for his gloomy emptiness. She paraded down the hall with him. As they reached the foot of the stairs the old one, the night clerk, leaned across the desk and in a voice that took the whole office into the conversation quizzed, Come from New York, eh? Well, you're quite a ways from home. Claire nodded. She felt shyer before these solemnly staring, traveling men than she ever had in a box at the opera. As the double door of the dining room from which the cabbage smells steamed with a lustiness undiminished by the sad passing of its youth, a man one of the average sized, average mustached, average business suited, average brown-haired men who can never be remembered, and haught, saw you coming into town. You've got a New York license? She couldn't deny it. Quite a ways from home, aren't you? She had to admit it. She was escorted by a bouncing black-eyed waitress to a table for four. The next table was a long one at which seven traveling men or local businessmen whose wives were at the lake for the summer ceased trying to get nourishment out of the food and gawked at her before the bolt-woods were seated the waitress dabbed at nonexistent spots on their napkins ignored a genuine crumb on the cloth in front of Claire's plate made motions at a cup and a formerly plated fork and bubbled autoing through Claire fumbled for her chair oozed into it and breathed yes going far yes Where do you live? New York. Quite a ways from home, aren't you? Apparently. Ham and eggs roast beef roast pork dapple sauce fried pickerel spring and mint sauce I beg your pardon the waitress repeated bring us ham and eggs is that all right father? No, well you wanted the same? The waitress inquired of Mr. Boltwood said, if you please and feebly pawed at a fork the waitress was instantly back with soup and a collection of china gathered by a man of much travel Catholic interests and no taste one of the plates alleged itself to belong to a hotel in Omaha she pushed a picture of condensed milk to the exact spot where it would catch Mr. Boltwood's sleeve brushed the crumb from in front beneath the pink and warty sugar bowl recovered a toothpick which had been concealed behind her glowing lips picked for a while gave it up put her hands on her hips and addressed Claire how far are you going? to Seattle got any folks there? oh yes, I suppose so going to stay there long? really, we haven't decided come from New York, eh? quite a ways from home father and business there? yes what's his line? I beg your pardon what's his line? ouch Jiminy, these shoes pinch my feet I used to condense all night but I'm getting fat, I guess put on seven pounds last month ouch, gee, they certainly do pinch my toes what business you say your father's in? I didn't say but oh, railroad GN or NP quite understand Mr. Boltwood interposed are the ham and eggs ready? I'll beat it out and see when she brought them she put a spoon in Claire's saucer of peas and demanded say you don't wear that silk dress in the auto, do you? no I should think you'd put a pink sash on it seems like it's kind of plain it's a real pretty piece of goods though a pink sash would be real pretty you dark, complexed ladies always look better in color then was Claire certain that the waitress was baiting her for the amusement of the man at the long table she exploded probably the waitress did not know there had been an explosion when Claire looked coldly up raised her brows looked down and poked the cold and salty slab of ham before she was continuing a light, complexed lady like me don't need so much color see, Pete Livrequist says I'm a blonde brunette gee, he certainly is killing that fellow oh, he's a case he sure does like to hear himself talk my, there's old man Walter he runs the telephone exchange here I heard he went down to St. Cloud on number two but I guess he couldn't have he'll be yodeling for friend soup and a couple of slabs of moo I better beat it, I'll say so long Claire's comment was as acid as pale beats before her as bitter as the peas watery mashed potatoes I don't know whether the woman is insane or ignorant I wish I could tell whether she was trying to make me angry for the benefit of those horrid unshaven men or merely for her private edification by me, dolly so this is pie let's get some medium to levitate us up to bed I think perhaps we'd better not try to drive Claire to Seattle if we just went through to Montana to Bismarck drive through with hotels like this my dear man if we have one more day we stop right there I hope we get by the man at the desk I have a feeling he's lurking there trying to think up something insulting to say to us oh my dear I hope you aren't as beastly tired as I am my bones are hot pokers the man at the desk got in only one cynical question driving far before Claire seized her father's arm and started him upstairs for the first time since she had been ten and in a state of naughtiness immediately following a pronounced state of grace induced by the pulpit oratory of the new rector of Saint Chrysostoms she permitted herself the luxury of not stopping to brush her teeth before she went to bed her sleep was drugged it was not sleep but an aching exhaustion of the body which did not prevent her mind from re-visualizing the road going stupidly over the muddy stretches and sharp corners then becoming conscious of that bed the lump under her shoulder blades the slope to westward and the creek that rose every time she tossed for at least fifteen minutes she lay awake for hours thus Claire Boltwood's first voyage into democracy it was not so much that the sun was shining in the morning as that a ripple of fresh breeze came through the window she discovered that she again long to go on, keep going on see new places conquer new roads she did not want all good roads she wanted something to struggle against she tried for one more day she was stiff as she crawled out of bed but a rub with cold water left her feeling that she was stronger than she had ever been that she was a woman, not a dependent girl already in the beating of every sun glare the wide main street of gopher prairie was drying the mud ruts flattening out beyond the town hover the note of a metal arc sunlight and sound oh, it's a sweet morning sweet, we will go on I'm terribly excited she laughed she found her father dressed he did not know whether or not he wanted to go on I seemed to have lost my grip on things I used to be rather decisive but we'll try it one more day if you like he said when she had gaily marched him downstairs she suddenly and unhappily remembered the people she would have to face the jibing questions she would have to answer the night clerk was still at the desk as though he had slept standing he hailed him well, well, up bright and early hope you folks slept well beds aren't so good as they might be but we're kind of planning to get some new mattresses but you get pretty good air to sleep in hope you have a fine hike today his voice was cordial he was their old friend faithful watcher of their progress Claire found herself dimpling at him in the dining room their inquisitional acquaintance the waitress fairly ran to them sit down, folks, waffles this morning you want to stock up for your drive my ain't it an elegant morning I hope you have a swell drive today why, Claire gasp why they aren't rude they care about people they never saw before that's why they ask questions I never thought I never thought there's people in the world who want to know us without having looked us up in the social register I'm so ashamed not that the sunshine changes my impression of this coffee it's frightful, but that will improve and the people they were being friendly all the time oh, Henry B. Young Henry Boltwood you and your godmother Claire have a lot to learn about the world as they came into the garage there's surly acquaintance of the night before looked just as surly but Claire tried a boisterous good morning morning, going north better take the left hand road at Walkaman ease your going drive your car out for you as the car stood outside taking on gas she flapped up spelled out the New York license looked at Claire and her father and inquired quite a ways from home, aren't you this time Claire did not say yes she experimented with yes, quite a ways well, hope you have a good trip good luck Claire leaned her head on her hand thought hard it's I who wasn't friendly she propounded to her father she refused to like that coffee she noticed the sign on the air hose of the garage free air there's our motto for the pilgrimage she cried she knew the exaltation of starting out in the fresh morning for places she had never seen without the bond of having to return at night thus Claire's second voyage into democracy while she was starting the young man who had pulled her out of the mud and given her lunch was folding up the tarpolin and blankets on which he had slept beside his teal bug in the woods three miles north of gopher prairie to the high well-born cat ver de ver milk dagget mused aloud your ladyship, as Shakespeare says the man that gets cold feet never wins the girl and I'm scared cat clean scared end of chapter four chapter five of free air this LibriVox recording is in the public domain free air by Sinclair Lewis chapter five release breaks shift to third milk dagget had not been accurate in his implication that he had not noticed Claire at a garage in Schoenstrom for one thing he owned the garage milk was the most prosperous young man in the village of Schoenstrom neither the village itself nor the nearby Strom is really Schoen the entire business district of Schoenstrom consists of Heine Rouse-Google's general store which is brick the Leipzig house which is frame the old home pool room and restaurant which is of old logs concealed by a frame sheathing the farm machinery agency which is galvanized iron its roof like an enlarged washboard the church the three saloons and the red tail garage which is also according to various signs the agency for teal car best at the test stonewall tire service station sewing machines and binders repaired or hostrom the veterinarian every Thursday gas today 27 cents the red tail garage is of cement and tapestry brick in the office is a clean hardwood floor a typewriter and a picture of Elsie Ferguson the establishment has an automatic rim stretcher a wheel jack and a reputation for honesty the father of milk daggett was the old doctor born in Maine coming to this frontier in the day when Chippewa's camped in your door yard and came in to help themselves to coffee which you made of roasted corn the old doctor bucked north west blizzards red dickens and Byron pulled people through typhoid and left to melt his shabby old medicine case and thousands of dollars in uncollectable accounts mrs. daggett had long since folded her crinkly hands in quiet death Milt had covered the first two years of high school by studying with the priest and had been sent to the city of St. Cloud for the last two years his father had meant to send him to the state university but Milt had been born to a talent for machinery at twelve he had made a telephone that worked at eighteen he was engineer in show and strong at twenty-five when Claire Boltwood chose to come tearing through his life in a Gomez depth Milt was the owner, manager, bookkeeper wrecking crew, ignition expert thoroughly competent bill collector and all but one of the working force of the red trail garage there were two factions in show and strong the retired farmers who said that German was a good enough language and that taxes for schools and sidewalks were yes, something crazy and the group who stated that a pig pin is a fine place but only for pigs to this second revolutionary wing belonged a few of the first generation most of the second and all of the third and its leader was Milt Daggett he did not talk much normally but when he thought things ought to be done he was as annoying as a machine gun test in the lot next to a Quaker meeting if there had been a war Milt would probably have been in it rather casual clearing his throat, reckoning and guessing that maybe his men might try going over and taking that hill then taking it but all of this history concerns the year just before America spoke to Germany and in this town among the cornfields and the wheat men still thought more about the price of grain than about the souls of nations on the evening before Clair Bolt would left Minneapolis and adventured into democracy Milt was in the garage he wore union coveralls that were tan where they were not grease black a faded blue cotton shirt and the crown of a derby with the rim not too neatly a dull toad-stabber jackknife Milt smiled at his assistant Ben Sitka and suggested well, the gatesmith to work eh like to stay and get the prof's fliver out so he can have it in the morning you bet boss getting to be quite a mechanic Ben I'll say so if you get stuck come yank me out of the old home ah rats boss I'll finish it you beat it Ben grinned at Milt adoringly Milt stripped off his overalls and derby crown and washed his big firm hands with gritty soft soap he cleaned his nails with a file which he carried in his upper vest pocket in a red imitation Morocco case which contained a comb a mirror an indelible pencil and a notebook with the smudged pencil addresses of five girls a cloud and a memorandum about Rouse-Google's car he put on a twisted brown tie an old blue-searched suit and a hat which being old and shabby had become graceful he ambled up the street he couldn't have ambled more than three blocks and have remained on the street Schoenstrom tended to leak off into jungles of tall corn two men waved at him and one demanded say Milt, is whiskey good for the toothache? what do you think? the doc said it didn't do any good but then by gosh he's only just out of college I guess he's right is that a fact? well I'll keep it off then two stores farther on a bulky farmer hailed say Milt, should I get an insulation cutter yet? yuh in the matter of a man who knows too much to be cocksure about anything I don't know but what I would Julius I guess I will then many rousk-coucled the plump, hearty, many heiress to the general store gave evidence by bridling and straightening her pigeon-like body that she was aware of Milt behind her he did not speak to her he ducked into the door of the old home pool room and restaurant Milt ranged up to the short-lunch counter in front of the pool table where two bricked-necked farm youngsters were furiously climbing balls around and attacking cigarettes loose-jointedly Milt climbed on a loose-jointed high stool and to the proprietor Bill McGallway, his best friend he yawned you might poison me with a hamburger and a slab of apple mac I'll do just that little thing look kind of grouchy tonight Milt too much excitement in this bird saw three people on the streets all simultaneously to once what's been eating you lately me? nothing only I do get tired of this metropolis one of these days I'm going to buck some bigger place try go for prairie maybe suggested Mac through the hiss and steam of the frying hamburger sandwich rats too small small? why there's darn near 5,000 people there I know but I want to tackle some sure enough city like Duluth or New York but what did you do? that's the devil of it I don't know just what I do want to do I could always land soft in a garage but that's nothing new might hit Detroit and learn the motor factory end you're the limit Milt always looking for something new that's the way to get on the rest of this town is afraid of new things remember when I suggested we all chip in on a dynamo with a gas engine and have electric lights I'm not going to be nervous yeah that's true but you stick here Milt you and me will just naturally run this bird I'll say only gosh Mac I would like to go to a real show once and find out how radio works and see him put in a big suspension bridge Milt left the old home rather aimlessly he told himself that he positively would not go back and help Ben so he went back and helped Ben get out the prof's car and drove the same to the prof's the prof otherwise professor otherwise Mr. James Martin Jones B.A. and Mrs. James Martin Jones welcomed him almost as noisily as had Mac they begged him to come in with Mr. Jones he discussed no ye clairs of Brooklyn Heights this man and this superintendent of a paint bear school talking in a town that was only a comma on the line did not discuss cornvroy nor did they reckon to guess that by heck the constable was carrying on with the witty perkins they spoke of fish culture LAHU root the spiritualistic evidences of immortality the government ownership self-starters for flivers and the stories of urban cob Milt went home earlier than he wanted to because Mr. Jones was the only man in town besides the priest who read books because Mrs. Jones was the only woman who laughed about any topics other than children and family sickness because he wanted to go to their house every night Milt treasured his welcome as a sacred thing and kept himself from calling on them more than once a week he stopped on his way to the garage to pet Aimele Baumschweiger's large grey cat publicly known as rags but to Milt and to the lady herself recognized as the unfortunate countess ver de ver perhaps the only person of noble ancestry and mysterious past in Milt's acquaintance the Baumschweiger's did not treat their animals well Aimele kicked the bay mare and threw pitchforks at ver de ver Milt saluted her and sympathized you have a punk time don't you countess like to beat it to Minneapolis with me countess said that she did indeed have an extraordinarily punk time and she sang to Milt the hymn of the little gods of the warm hearth then Milt's evening dissipations were over Sean Strom has movies only once a week he sat in the office of his garage ruffling a weekly digest of events Milt read much though not too easily he had no desire to be a poet an Indo-Iranian etymologist a lecturer to women's clubs or the secretary of state but he did rouse to the marvels hinted in books and magazines to large crowds the mechanism of submarines palm trees gracious women he laid down the magazine he stared at the wall he thought about nothing he seemed to be fumbling for something about which he could deliciously think if he could but grasp it without quite visualizing either wall or sea he was yet recalling old dreams of a moonlit wall by a warm stirring southern sea if there was a girl in the dream she was intangible as the scent of the night presently he was asleep a not at all romantic figure rather ludicrously tipped to one side in his office chair his large solid shoes up on the desk he half woke and filtered to what he called home one room in the cottage of an oldish woman who had prejudices against the perilous night air he was too sleepy to go through any toilet save pulling off his shoes and achieving an unconvincing wash at the little stand whose crackly varnish was marked with white rings from the toothbrush mug I feel about due to pull off some fool stunt wonder what it will be he complained as he flopped on the bed he was up at six and at a quarter to seven was at work in the garage he spent a large part of the morning in trying to prove to a customer that even a teal car best at the test would not give perfect service if the customer persisted in forgetting to fill the oil well the grease cups and the battery at three minutes after twelve Milt left the garage to go to dinner the fog of the morning had turned to rain McAulay was not at the old home sometimes Mack got tired of serving meals and for a day or two he took to a pocket flask and among his former customers the cans of prepared meat at Rouse-Google's became popular Milt found him standing under the tin awning of a general store he had a troubled hope of keeping Mack from too long a vacation with the pocket flask but Mack was already red eyed he seemed only half to recognize Milt Swell Day said Milt you bet road darn muddy I should worry yebo I'm feeling good seven minutes past twelve a Gomez dep roadster appeared down the road stopped at the garage to Milt it was as exciting as the appearance of a comet to a watching astronomer what kind of car do you call that Milt ask a loafer Gomez deproducing never heard of it looks too heavy this was sacrilege Milt stormed it's one of the best cars in the world imported from France that looks like a special made American body though trouble with you fellas is you're always scared of anything that's new too heavy always wanted to see a Gomez never have except in pictures and I believe that's a New York license let me add it he forgot noon hunger and clumped through the rain to the garage he saw a girl step from the car he stopped in the doorway of the old home in uneasy shyness he told himself he didn't know just what it is about her she isn't so darn unusually pretty and yet gee certainly isn't a girl to get fresh with let Ben take care of her like to talk to her and yet I'd be afraid if I opened my mouth I'd put my foot in it he was for the first time seeing a smart woman this dark slender fine-nerved girl in her plain, rough, closely belted gray suit her small black glengary cocked on one side of her smooth hair her little kid gloves her veil was as delicately adjusted as an airplane engine Milt wanted to trumpet her exquisiteness to the world so he growled to a man standing beside him swell car nice looking girl kind of kind of skinny though I like him with some meat on him he was a man no, Milt did not strike him to earth he insisted feebly nice clothes she's got though oh, not so much a much I've seen a woman come through here yesterday that was swell though had on a purple dress and white shoes and a hat big as a bushel well I don't know I kind of like those simple things he crept toward the garage the girl was inside he inspected the slope patent leather motoring trunk on the back of the rear of the Gomez dep he noticed a middle aged man waiting in the car must be her father, probably maybe she isn't married then he could not get himself to shout at the man as he usually did he entered the garage office from the inner door he peeped at the girl who was talking to his assistant about changing an inner tube that Ben Sitka whom an hour ago he had cajoled he now admired for the sniffing calmness with which he was demanding one a red or a grey tube really I don't know which is the better the girl's voice was curiously clear milk past Claire Boltwood as though he did not see her stood at the rear of the garage kicking at the tires of a car his back to her over and over he was grumbling if I just knew one girl like that like a picture like a silver vase on a blue cloth Ben Sitka did not talk to the girl while he inserted the tube in the spare casing only in the triumphant moment when the parted ends of the steel rim snapped back together he piped going far yes rather to Seattle milk stared at the cobweb grade window now I know what I was planning to do I'm going to saddle he said the girl was gone at 29 minutes after 12 at 29 and a half minutes after milk remarked to Ben Sitka I'm going to take a trip now don't ask questions you take charge of the garage until you hear from me get somebody to help you goodbye he drove his teal bug out of the garage at 32 minutes after 12 he was in his room packing his wicker suitcase throwing things in and stamping on the case till it closed in it he had absolutely all of his toilet refinements and wardrobe except the important portion already in use they consisted according to faithful detailed report of four extra pairs of thick yellow and white cotton socks two shirts five collars five handkerchiefs a pair of surprisingly vain dancing pumps faced boots three suits of cheap cotton under clothes his Sunday suit which was dead black in color and unimaginative in cut four ties a fagged toothbrush a comb and hair brush a razor a strop shaving soap in a mug a not very clean towel and nothing else whatever to this he added his entire library so Ben Hur his father's copy of Byron a wireless manual and the 1916 edition of motor construction and repairing the art collection one colored Sunday supplement picture of a princess lunching in a Provence courtyard and a half tone of Colonel Paul Beck landing in an early military biplane under this last in a pencil scroll blurred to greyness Milt had once written this would all be aviator what he was to wear was a piercing trouble till eleven minutes past twelve that day he had not cared people accepted his overalls at anything except a dance and at the dances he was the only one who wore pumps but in his discovery of Clair Boltwood he had perceived that dressing is an art unhappily pawed at the prize black suit it had become stupid undertaker he growled with a shrug which indicated that he had nothing else he had exchanged his overalls for a tan flannel shirt black bow tie thick pig skin shoes and the suit he had worn the evening before his best suit of two years ago baggy blue surge coat and trousers but they were surprisingly graceful on his wiry firm white body in his pockets were a roll of bills and an unexpectedly good gold watch for warmth he had a winter ulster an old fashioned turtleneck sweater and a raincoat heavy as a tarpaulin he plunged into the raincoat ran out galloped to Raskookle's store bought the most vehement cap in the place a plaid of cerise, orange, emerald green ultramarine and five other guaranteed fashionable colors he stocked up with food for roadside camping in the humping tin-covered tail of the bug was a good deal of room and this he filled with motor extras a shotgun and shells a pair of skates and all his camping kit as used on his annual duck hunting trip to Mantrap Lake I'm a darn fool to take everything I own but might be gone a whole month, he reflected he had only one possession left a checkbook concealed from the interested eye of his two maternal landlady by sticking it under the steric carpet this he retrieved it showed a balance of two hundred dollars there was ten dollars in the cash register in the office for Ben Sitka the garage wood with the mortgage deducted nearly two thousand this was his fortune he bolted into the kitchen and all in one shout he informed his landlady called out of town little trip, believe I don't owe you anything but here's six dollars, two weeks notice don't know just when I'll be back before she could issue a questionnaire he was out the door in the bug he ran through town at his friend McCall Way now loose-lipped and wobbly on a pile of ties behind the railroad station he yelled, so long Mac take care of yourself old Hoss off on a little trip he stopped in front of the profs tuted till the heads of the Joneses appeared in the window waved and shouted goodbye folks going out of town then while freedom and the distant pacific seemed to rush at him over the hood he whirled out of town it was two minutes to one forty seven minutes since Clair Boltwood had entered Schoenstrom he stopped only once his friend Lady Verdevere was at the edge of town on a scientific exploring trip in the matter of ethnology and field mice she hailed him you don't say so Milt answered in surprise well if I promise to take you I'll keep my word he vaulted out, tucked Verdevere into the seat protecting her from the rain with the tarpaulin winter radiator cover his rut skipping car overtook the mud walloping Gomez depth in an hour and pulled it out of the mud before Milt slept that night in his camp three miles from gopher prairie he went through religious rites girl like her she's darned particular about her looks I'm a sloppy hound used to be snappier about my clothes when I was in high school I've been lazy, too much like Mack think of me sleeping in my clothes last night rebuke the cat your dead right fierces the word never will sleep in my duds again puss that is when I have a regular human bed of course camping different but still let's see all the funny things we can do to us he shaved two complete shaves from lather to towel he brushed his hair he sat down by a campfire sheltered between two rocks and fought his nails though they were discouragingly crammed with motor grease throughout this interesting but quite painful ceremony Milt kept up a conversation between himself as the world's champion dude and his cat as valet but when there was nothing more to do and the fire was low and very to very asleep in the sleeve of the winter Ulster his bumbling voice slackened in something like agony and he muttered but oh, what's the use I can't ever be anything but a dub cleaning my nails to make a hit with a girl that's got hands like hers it's a long trail to Seattle but it's a darn sight longer one to being being well sophisticated oh, and incidentally what the deuce am I going to do in Seattle if I do get there End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Free Air this LibriVox recording is in the public domain Free Air by Sinclair Lewis Chapter 6 The Land of Billowing Clouds Never a tawny beached ocean has the sweetness of the prairie slew rippling in blue with long grass up to its edge a spot of dancing light set in the miles of wrestling wheat it retains even in July on an afternoon of glare and brazen locusts the freshness of the spring morning a thousand slews a hundred lakes bordered with rippling barley or tinkling bells of the flax Claire passed she had left the occasional groves of oak and poplar and silver birch and come out on the treeless great plains she had learned to call the slews pug holes and to watch for ducks at twilight she had learned that about the pug holes fluttered choirs of crimson winged blackbirds that the ugly brown birds squatting on fence rails were the divine voiced meadowlarks that among the humble cowbird citizens of the pastures sometimes flaunted a scarlet tannager or an Oreo and that no rose garden has the quaint hearty beauty of the Indian paintbrushes and rag babies and orange milkweed in the prickly burnt over grass between the roadside and the railway line she had learned that what had seemed rudeness in garage men and hotel clerks was often a resentful reflection of her own eastern attitude that she was necessarily superior to a race she had been trained to call common people if she spoke up frankly they made her one of their own and gave her companionable aid for two days of sunshine and drying mud she followed a road flung straight across flat wheat lands then curving among low hills often there were no fences she was so intimately in among the grain that the fenders of the car brushed wheat stalks and she became no stranger but a part of all this vast horizon land she forgot that she was driving as she let the car creep on while she was transported by armadas of clouds prairie clouds, wisps of vapor like a ribbed beach or mounds of cumulus swelling to gold washed snowy peaks the friendliness of the bearing earth gave her a calm that took no heed of passing hours even her father the abstracted man of affairs with 60 people along the road to a jolly old man whose book rolled and shook in a tiny rhythmically creaking buggy to women in the small abrupt towns with their huge red elevators in their long flat-roofed stores Claire had discovered America and she felt stronger and all her days were colored with the sun she had discovered too that she could adventure a journey that had whispered to her as she had left Minneapolis she knew a thrill when she hailed as though it were a passing ship an Illinois car across whose dust caked back was the banner Chicago to the Yellowstone she experienced a new sensation of common humanness when, on a railway paralleling the wagon road for miles the engineer of a freight waved his hand to her and tuted the whistle and greeting Claire was easily tired but he drowsed through the early afternoons when a none too digestible small town lunch was as led within him despite the beauty of the land and the joy of pushing on they both had things to endure after lunch it was sometimes agony to Claire to keep away her eyes felt greasy from the food or smarted with the sun glare in the still air after the morning turned out the heat from the engine was a torment about her feet and if there was another car ahead the trail of dust sifted into her throat unless there was traffic to keep her awake she nodded at the wheel she was merely part of a machine that ran on without seeming to make any impression on the prairies endlessness over and over were the same manipulations slow for downhill on the bottom letting out on a smooth stretch waving to a lonely farmwife in her small baked door yard slow to pass a hay wagon gas up for the next hill and repeat the round all over again but she was joyous till noon and with mid-afternoon a new strength came which as rose crept above the golden haze of dust deepened into serene meditation and she was finding the one secret of long distance driving, namely driving, keeping on thinking by 50 mile units not by the 10 mile stretches of long island runs and not fretting over anything whatever she seemed charmed if she had a puncture why she put on the spare if she ran out of gas why any passing driver would lend her a gallon she called her level flight across the giant land she rarely lost her way she was guided by the friendly trail signs those big red R's and L's on fence post and telephone pole magically telling the way from the Mississippi to the Pacific her father's occasional amusing talk kept her from loneliness he was a good touring companion motoring is not the best occasion for epigrams satire and the good one you got off at the lambs club last night such verbiage on motor trips infuriably results in the mysterious finding of the corpse of a strange man well dressed hidden beside the road Claire and her father mumbled good farmhouse brick or nice view and smiled and were for miles as silent as the companionable sky she thought of the people she knew especially of Jeff Saxton but she could not clearly remember his lean earnest face between her and Jeff were sweeping sunny leagues but she was not lonely certainly she was not lonely for a young man with a raincoat a cat and an interest in Japan no singer after a first concert has felt more triumphant than Claire when she crossed her first state line she stumbled over the bridge across the Red River into North Dakota to see Dakota licenses everywhere instead of Minnesota was like the sensation of street signs in a new language and when she found a good hotel in Fargo and had a real bath she felt that by her own efforts she had earned the right to enjoy it Mr. Boltwood caught her enthusiasm dinner was a festival and in iced tea peaceful conquistadories drank the toast of the new Spanish main and afterward arm in arm went chattering to the movies in front of the royal palace pictures four great acts vaudeville four was browsing a small beetle like tin covered car dad look I'm sure yes of course there's a suitcase that's the car of that nice boy the one that pulled us out of the mud at I don't remember the name of the place apparently he's keeping going I remember he's heading for Seattle to we'll look for him in the theater oh the darling there's his cat what was the funny name he gave her the markinus montmorency or something lady there to their afraid of Vargo and movie crowds but trusting in her itinerant castle the bug curled in milk daggits ulster in the bottom of the car she twinkled her whiskers at Claire and purred to a stroking hand with the excitement of one trying to find the address of a friend in a strange land Claire looked over the audience when the lights came on before the vaudeville in the second row she saw milts stiffish rote colored hair surprisingly smooth above an astoundingly clean new tan characterized silk he laughed furiously at the dialogue between Pete Rosenheim and La Rose Bettina though it contained the cheese joke the mother-in-law joke and the joke about the wife rifling her husband's pockets our young friend seems to have enviable youthful spirits commented Mr. Boldwood now no superiority he's probably never seen a real vaudeville show wouldn't be fun if it wasn't for Mr. Gardner or the Follies for the first time instead of being taken by Jeff Saxton and having the humor oh so articulately explained the pictures were resumed the film which under 10 or 12 different titles Claire had already seen even though Brooklyn Heights does not devote Saturday evening to the movies the bad man, the sheriff and aged to party with whiskers the sad eyes of the sheriff's daughter also an aged party but with a son bonnet and the most expensive rouge the crooks' reformation and his violent adherence to law and order this libel upon the portions of these United States lying west of Longitude 101 degrees Claire had seen too often she dragged her father back to the hotel sent him to bed and entered her room to find a telegram upon the bureau she had sent her friends a list of the places at which she would be likely to stop the message was from Jeff Saxton in Brooklyn it brought to her mind the steady shine of his glasses the most expensive glasses with the very best curved lenses as it demanded received letter about trip surprised anxious will tire you out fatigue, prairie roads bad for your father, mountain roads dangerous, strongly advised go only partway then take train Jeffrey she held the telegram flipping her fingers against one end of it as she debated she remembered how the wide world had flowed toward her over the hood of the Gomez all day she wrote an answer awful perils of road two punctures split infinitive eggs at lunch questionable but struggle on before she sent it she held council she sat on the foot of his bed and tried to sound dutiful I don't want to do anything that's bad for you daddy but isn't it taking your mind away from business yes I think it is anyway we'll try it a few days more I fancy we can stand up under the strain and perils I think we can persuade some of these big farmers to come to the rescue if we encounter any walruses or crocodiles among the wheat we have a feeling that if we ever get stuck our friend of the teal bug will help us probably never see him again he'll skip on ahead of us of course we haven't laid an eye on him along the road he must have gotten into far go along before we did now tomorrow I think end of chapter 6 chapter 7 of free air this LibriVox recording is in the public domain free air by Sinclair Lewis chapter 7 the great American frying pan it was Claire's first bad day since the hole in the mud she had started gallantly scooting along the level road that flies straight west to Fargo but at noon she encountered a restaurant which made eating seem an evil that they might have fair fame the commercial club of Reaper had set at the edge of town a sign welcome to Reaper a live town speed limit 8 miles per hour being interpreted that sign meant that if you went much over 20 miles an hour on the main street people might glance at you and that the real welcome the only impression of Reaper that tourists were likely to carry away was the welcome in the one restaurant it was called the eats garden as Claire and her father entered they were stifled by a belch of smoke from the frying pan in the kitchen the room was blocked by a huge lunch counter there was only one table covered with an oil cloth decorated with venerable spots of dried ink yoke the waiter cook whose apron was gravy patterned with a border and stomacher what do you want? Claire sufficiently recovered to pick out the type from the fly specs on the menu and she ordered a small steak and coffee for her father for herself tea boiled eggs toast toast we ain't got any toast well can't you make it oh I suppose I could when they came the slices of toast were an inch thick burnt on one side and raw on the other she was bitter and the eggs watery her father reported that his steak was high-test raw hide and his coffee well he wasn't sure just what substitute had been used for chicory but he thought it was lukewarm quinine Claire raged you know this town really has aspirations they're beginning to build such nice little bungalows and there's a fine clean bank then they permit the scoundrel to advertise the town among strangers in motors by serving food like this I suppose they think that they arrest criminals here yet this restaurant man is a thief to charge real money for food like this yes and he's a murderer oh come now Dolly yes he is literally he must in his glorious career have given chronic indigestion to thousands of people shorten their lives by years that's wholesale murder if I were the authorities here I wouldn't indulge it to the people who only murder one or two people but imprison this cook for life really I mean it well he probably does the best he he does not these eggs and this bread were perfectly good before he did black magic over them and did you see the contemptuous look he gave me when I was so eccentric as to order toast oh reaper reaper you desire a modern town yet I wonder if you know how many people are cursing you if I could only hang that restaurant man and the others like him in a rope of his own hempen griddle cakes the great American frying pan I don't expect men building a new town to have time to read Hugh Walpole and James Branch Cabell but I do expect them to afford a cook who can fry eggs as she paid the check Claire tried to think of some protest which would have any effect on the in face of his pink puffiness she gave it up her failure as a citizen as fix it sent her out of the place in a fury carried her on in a dusty whirl till the engine spat sounded tired and reflective and said it guessed it wouldn't go any farther that day now that she had something to do Claire became patient run out of gas isn't it lucky I got that can for an extra gallon but there was plenty of gas there was no discernible reason why the car should not go she started the engine it ran for half a minute and quit all the plugs showed sparks no wires were detached in the distributor there was plenty of water and the oil was not clogged and that ended Claire's knowledge of the inside of a motor she stopped two motorists the first was sure that there was dirt on the point of the needle valve while Claire shuttered lest he never get it back he took out the needle valve, wiped it put it back and the engine was started again and again with great promptness it stopped the second good Samaritan knew that one of the wires in the distributor must be detached and though she assured him that she had inspected them he looked pittingly at her smart sports suit and said well I'll just take a look and removed the distributor cover he also scratched his head felt of the fuses under the cow scratched his cheek poked a finger at the carburetor rubbed his ear, said well look to see if there was water and gas inside can't just seem to find out what's the trouble shot at his own car and escaped Claire had been highly grateful and laudatory to both of them but she remained here 10 miles from nowhere it was a beautiful place a tweet swam toward a village whose elevator was a glistening tower mud hens gabbled in a slew alfalfa shone with unearthly green and bees went junketing toward a field of red clover but she had the motorists fever to go on the road behind and in front was very long very white and very empty her father out of much thought and a solid ignorance about all of motoring beyond the hiring of chauffeurs and the payment of bills she suggested Dolly have you look to see if these is the carburetor all right yes dear I've looked at it three times so far she said just a little too smoothly on the hill five miles to eastward a line of dust then a small car as it approached the driver must have sighted her and increased speed he came up at 35 miles an hour now we'll get something done it's a bug a fliver or a teal or something I believe it's the young man that got us out of the mud milk dagget stopped casually greeted them why hello miss boltwood thought you'd be way ahead of me someplace meow said ver de ver what this meant the historian does not know no I've been taking it easy mister I can't quite remember your name milk dagget there's something mysterious the matter with my car the engine will start after it's left alone a while but then it stalls do you suppose you could tell what it is I don't know I'll see if I can find out then you probably will the other two men knew everything one of them was the inventor of wheels the other discovered skidding so of course they couldn't help us milk added nothing to her frivolity but his smile was friendly he lifted the round rubber cap of the distributor then Claire's faith tumbled in the dust twice had the wires been tested milk tested them again she was too tired of botching to tell him he was wasting time got an oil can he hesitated through a tiny hole in the plate of the distributor he dropped two drops of oil only two drops I guess maybe that's what it needed you might try her now and see how she runs he said mildly dubiously Claire started the engine it sang jubilantly and it did not stop again was the road open to her again was the settlement over there to which it would have taken her an hour to walk only six minutes away she stopped the engine beamed at him there in the dust on the quiet hilltop he said as apologetically as though he had been at fault distributor got dry a little oil about once in six months we are so grateful to you twice now you've saved our lives oh I guess you'd have gone on living and if drivers can't help each other who can that's a good start toward world fellowship I suppose I wish we could do return your lunch or Mr. Daggett you read books I mean yes I do when I run across them maybe I can get you these two that I happen to have along I've finished them and so has father I think from the folds of the strap down top she pulled out Compton Mackenzie's youth's encounter and Vashal Lindsey's Congo with a curious faint excitement she watched him turn the leaves his blunt fingers flapped through them as though he was used to books as he looked at Congo he exclaimed poetry that's fine but I don't hardly ever run across it I say I'm terribly obliged his clear face lifted sun brown and young and adoring she had not often seen men look at her thus certainly Jeff Saxton's painless worship did not turn him into the likeness of a knight among banners yet the good Jeffrey loved her while to Milt Daggett she could be nothing more than a strange young woman in a car with a New York license the gift could so please him how poor he must be he probably lives on some barren farm she thought or he's a penniless mechanic hoping for a good job in Seattle how white his forehead is but aloud she was saying I hope you're enjoying your trip oh yes I like it fine you having a good time well thanks for the books she was off before him presently she exclaimed to Mr. Wood you know just occurs to me it's rather curious that our young friend should be so coincidental as to come along just when we needed him oh he just happens to I suppose him and her father I'm not so sure she meditated while she absently watched another member of the poultry suicide club rush out of a safe ditch prepare to take leave for immortality change her foulish mine flutter up over the hood of the car and come down squawking her indignities to the barnyard I'm not so sure about his happening no I wonder if he could possibly oh no I hope not flattering but you don't suppose he could be deliberately following us nonsense he's a perfectly decent young chap I know of course he probably works hard in a garage and he's not in a good mood but he's not he's not in a good mood but he's not in a good mood and he's not in a good mood I mean he's not in a good mood I mean I wouldn't want the deer lamb to be a devoted night though too thankless a job she slowed the car down to 15 an hour for the first time she began to watch the road behind moment, for a time too brief to indicate that anything had gone wrong with the car. Staring back, she saw that the bug also stopped, and she fancied that Milt was out standing beside it, peering with his palm over his eyes, a spy unnatural and disturbing in the wide peace. She drove on a mile and halted again. Again halted her attendant. He was keeping a consistent two to four miles behind, she estimated. This won't do it at all, she worried. Flattering, but somehow, whatever sort of cocoon-wrapped hussy I am, I don't collect scalps. I won't have young men serving me. Graphed on them. Get amusement out of their struggles. Besides, suppose he became just a little more friendly each time he came up all the way from here to Seattle? Fresh? No, it won't do. She ran the car to the side of the road. More trouble, groaned her father. No, I just want to see scenery. But there's a good deal of scenery on all sides without stopping, seems to me. Yes, but she looked back. Milt had come into sight, had paused to take observations. Her father caught it. Oh, I see. Pardon me. Are Squire still following? Let him go on ahead. Why is Lass? Yes, I think it's perhaps better to avoid complications. Of course Mr. Boltwood's manner did not merely avoid Milt. It abolished him. She saw Milt, after five minutes of stationery watching, start forward. He came dustily rattling up with a hail of... Distributor on strike again? So cheerful that it hurt her to dismiss him. But she had managed a household. She was able to say, suavely. No, everything is fine. I'm sure it will be now. I'm afraid we are holding you back. You mustn't worry about us. Oh, that's all right. Breezily. Something might go wrong. Say, is this poetry book? No, I'm sure nothing will go wrong now. You mustn't feel responsible for us. But you understand we're very grateful for what you have done, and perhaps we shall see each other in Seattle. She made it brightly interrogatory. Oh, I see. His hands gripped the wheel. His cheeks had been too rudely tinted by the Dakota sun to show a blush, but his teeth caught his lower lip. He had no starter on his bug. He had in his embarrassment to get out in crank. He did it quietly, not looking at her. She could see that his hand trembled on the crank. When he did glance at her as he drove off, it was apologetically, miserably. His foot was shaking on the clutch pedal. The dust behind his car concealed him. For twenty miles she was silent, save when she burst out to her father. I do hope you're enjoying the trip. It's so easy to make people unhappy. I wonder. No. Had to be done.