“Why not?” said she; “ain’t they the mos’ wunnerful things in all the world? Mart’n Luther ’s seen ’em in town, an’ told me about em, but I never thought as I ’d see one with my own eyes.”
Her awe and interest were so intense that, as yet, she had not glanced once at the boy’s face. He laughed, in his quiet way, as he leaned over the porch rail, but it occurred to him that there was something pathetic in the fact that the lonely old woman had never seen an automobile before.
“Don’t you ever go to town yourself?” he asked curiously.
She shook her head. “Not often, though sometimes I do,” she replied. “Went to Fennport a year ago las’ June, an’ put in a whole day there. But it tired me, the waggin jolts so. I’m too old now fer sech doin’s, an’ Mart’n Luther ‘lows it ain’t wuth payin’ toll-gate both ways for. He has to go sometimes, you know, to sell truck an’ buy groceries; he ’s there to-day, ’tendin’ the county fair; but I ’ve stayed home an’ minded my own business ‘til I hain’t got much hankerin’ fer travel any more.”
During this speech, she reluctantly withdrew her eyes from the automobile and turned them upon the boy’s face. He was regarding her placid features with a wonder almost equal to her own. It seemed so strange to find one so isolated and secluded from the world, and so resigned to such a fate.
“No near neighbors?” he said.
“The Bascomes live two miles north, but Mis’ Bascome an’ I don’t git on well. She ain’t never had religion.”
“But you go to church?”
“Certain sure, boy! But our church ain’t town way, you know; it ’s over to Hobbs’ Corners. Ev’ry Sunday fer the las’ year, I ’ve been lookin’ out fer them no-hoss waggins, thinkin’ one might pass the Corners. But none ever did.”
“This is a queer, forsaken corner of the world,” the boy said reflectively, “and yet it ’s in the heart of one of the most populous and progressive States in the Union.”
“You ’re right *bout that,’ she agreed. “Silas Herrin ’s bought the lates’ style thrash’n’-machine—all painted red—an’ I guess the county fair at Fennport makes the rest o’ the world open its eyes some. We ’re ahead of ’em all on progressin’, as Mart’n Luther ’s said more ’n once.”
“Who is Martin Luther?” asked the boy.
“He ’s my man. His name ’s Mart’n Luther Sager, an’ I ’m Aunt ’Phroney Sager—the which my baptism name is Sophroney. Mart’n Luther were named fer the great Meth’dis’ leader. He had a hankerin’ to be a Baptis’ in his young days, but he das n’t with such a name. So he j’ined the Meth’dists to make things harmoni’us, an’ he ’s never regretted it.”
The boy smiled in an amused way, but he did not laugh at her. There was something in her simple, homely speech, as well as in the expression of her face, that commanded respect. Her eyes were keen, yet gentle; her lips firm, yet smiling; her aged, wrinkled features complacent and confident, yet radiating a childlike innocence.
“Ain’t ye ’fraid to run the thing?” she asked, reverting to the automobile.
“No, indeed. It ’s as simple as a sewing-machine—when you know how.”
“I ’d like to see it go. It come so sudden-like past the grove that when I looked up, you ’d stopped short.”
“I ’d like to see it go myself, Aunt ’Phroney,” the boy answered; “but it won’t move a step unless you help it. Just think, ma’am, you ’ve never seen a motor-car before, and yet the big machine can’t move without your assistance!”
She knew he was joking, and returned his merry smile; but the speech puzzled her.
“As how, boy?” she inquired.
“The ‘no-hoss keeridge’ is a hungry monster, and has to be fed before he ‘ll work. I hope you will feed him, Aunt ’Phroney.”
“On what?”
“Gasolene. I forgot to fill up the tank before I started, and now the last drop is gone.”
“Gasolene!” she exclaimed, with a startled look; “why, we don’t keep gasolene, child. How on earth did you expec’ to find sech a thing in a farm-house?”
“Don’t you cook with gasolene?” he asked.
“My, no! We use good chopped wood—splinters an’ knots. Mis’ Bascome had a gas’lene stove once, but it bu’sted an’ set fire to the baby; so they buried it in the back yard.”
“The baby?”
“No, boy; the stove. They managed to put the baby out.”
The statement puzzled him, but his mind was more on the gasolene.
“Does n't your husband use gasolene around the farm?” he inquired.
“No, ‘ndeed.”
“And you have n't any naphtha or benzine—just a little?”
“Not a drop.”
“Nor alcohol?”
“Mercy, no!”
The boy’s face fell. “Where is the nearest place I might get some gasolene?” he asked.
“Lemme see. Harpers’ might have it—that ’s105
