Much bustling about on the part of the smiling Helen and me, much
locking of gates and doors by the bored chauffeur, and we were off for
home! After all is said and done, "home is where the heart is,"
irrespective of the view.
The first part of the way we made good time, but just out of one of the
small seaside towns something vital snapped in the motor's insides. It
happened on a bridge at the foot of a hill, and we were very lucky to
escape an accident. I will say for the chauffeur that while, as a
farmer, he would never get far, as a driver he knew his business. One
slight skid and we stopped short, "never to go again," like
grandfather's clock. It resulted in our having to be towed backwards to
the nearest garage, while the chauffeur jumped on a passing motor bound
for Pasadena, and was snatched from my sight like Elijah in the
chariot--he was off to get a new driving shaft. The smiling Helen
followed in a Ford full of old ladies. I elected to travel by train and
sat for hours in a small station waiting for the so-called "express." In
a hasty division of the lunch I got all the hard-boiled eggs, and of
course one can eat only a limited number of them, though I will say that
a few quite deaden one's appetite.
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