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"The
Camp," Lake Emerald, North Dorset, Vt.
Friday, April 17, 1925
This
morning early we took baths in the brook while the sun was
drawing the frost from the ground and making a great steam
about it in the tree tops. The spot was so lovely that we
dawdled with our breakfast and packing, which delayed us
of course in starting.
Near Kinderhook, N.Y., as we were readjusting our luggage,
a large touring car stopped beside us. We thought it was
out of gas, but the sober one of the two occupants got out
and found the tank nearly full. Then pulling up the hood,
he gazed vacantly inside. Apparently neither he nor the
other, who was giving varied and fanciful directions from
the dark recesses of the car, knew a thing about engines
in general nor this one in particular, so he called on Bill
to help.
However, my husband also knows little about a car but, being
electrically minded, sought the trouble in the parts he
knew best. After a few peers and pokes he called for the
radio earphones and then for the radio itself, and, like
a doctor with his stethoscope, he sounded the lungs of the
patient. By attaching a wire from one of the radio B. batteries
to the engine he discovered something wrong with the timer.
Thus scientifically verifying the practically proven fact
that the car could not run, Bill decided to t[ake] it to
a garage, although it was heavy, being loaded with several
cases of something that had played its part in unsobering
the unsober one. Bill, proud of his Harley-Davidson, thinks
it can do anything. So he hitched the two machines together
with a rope and our good little one, heavily loaded herself,
valiantly towed the big sick one three miles to a car hospital.
But the ordeal was too much for our cycle. When we tried
to start her she would not budge. The strain had apparently
burnt out her clutch.
We were pretty discouraged, but Bill endeavored to fix her.
The other machine was soon cured, the sober occupant insisted
upon giving Bill $5 for his trouble and the injury to the
motorcycle. Bill would not have taken the money if he had
not felt that the poor buzz-wagon was badly hurt. Fortunately,
however, after Bill had tightened a few screws, the clutch
worked as well as ever. Overheated, it had only been paralyzed
for a while.
So once more we started on our journey. Upon reaching Troy
we bought some provisions, including half a dozen eggs,
which we put in a canvas washbasin in the bow of the sidecar
where it would not matter if they broke. After driving sixty
miles to North Dorset, Vermont, in order to get around Emerald
Lake we had to cross railroad tracks, the planks between
which had been taken up, so we bumped over in great shape.
We could hardly believe our eyes when we found not one egg
even cracked. No wonder we are proud of our pop?cycle.
We have just scrambled and eaten the six eggs, after pitching
our tent beside the lake, as it was too late to get from
Charley, the local handy-man, the key to "The Camp,"
Mother and Dad's bungalow.
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