1923 Yearbook
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Title
1923 Yearbook
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explanation, afterwards, was, that being a green driver and nervous over my dangerous
predicament, he jammed his foot on the low speed pedal instead of the reverse; becoming more rattled when he realized what he had done, he threw forward the emergency lever to change gears (which isn't done in the best Fords), but instead of reversing the motor, he threw it into high. Away he went, and, with the down grade
and car in high, his time was well occupied in maintaining the car's position between the
fences. Around the corner he bumped and tinkled, and up over a little hill.
My recollections of my attendant sensations at that time are rather hazy. The
principal thing I remember is that I felt crushed—crushed in body and spirit—to think
that such a kindly appearing old man could be a bandit and a murderer. For at that
time there seemed no other explanation but that he tried to murder me and kidnap my
previously faithful old Elizabeth. But perhaps not he but the Elizabeth herself was
to blame. Perhaps, feeling some one at the wheel, with me lying prostrate in front of
her wheels, she thought that she was a reincarnation of Elizabeth of historical fame
and that I was trying to out-gallant Sir Walter in trying to keep her dainty tires free
from the soiling (or soily) mud.
Whatever the cause was, I remember the effect was brought home to me through
the medium of my chest, as flat as my pocket-book after 4th of July. I am quite sure
that I felt none of the ecstasy that Adam was reported to have experienced when his
fifth rib had first been pressed to his bosom.
I had struggled to a sitting posture, meditating on the inherent cupidity of man in
general and one Cornell professor in particular, when I was thrown into fresh panic at
the sight of a dishevelled figure with touseled hair and streaming coat tails rushing over
the hill toward me. It took but a minute for me to realize the significance of this
strategic move. No doubt the professor had looked back as he dashed over the hill to
see me sitting up, and, realizing that he had not killed me, was coming back to do so.
But after my first feeling of consternation, I felt more relieved and more kindly toward
him to think he would put me out of my misery. If, however, he intended to use the
other car to do so, I intended to voice a protest and to try to persuade him to use a
monkey wrench or something more humane and painless because of its speedier dispatch.
As he labored, puffing, up the hill, and before I could say anything, he cried, "You
live! You live!" And then apologetically, "I am sure you will pardon my inadvertent
and careless manipulation of the complex mechanism of your motor car; for, as I said
before, I am a green driver. No doubt you were once green yourself?"
He ended questioningly, evidently overcome by emotion. He seemed to want me to
speak so I said, "Yes, I was green once, but I am ripe now—ripe for murder."
Seeing a wild look come into his eyes and fearing he might be a maniac whom it
would not be safe to arouse further in my present condition, I hastened to add, "But I
am too ripe. I am so ripe I am as mellow as a bruised apple. I am as tender as a
pounded beefsteak. I am as harmless as a mashed potato."
Page 178
predicament, he jammed his foot on the low speed pedal instead of the reverse; becoming more rattled when he realized what he had done, he threw forward the emergency lever to change gears (which isn't done in the best Fords), but instead of reversing the motor, he threw it into high. Away he went, and, with the down grade
and car in high, his time was well occupied in maintaining the car's position between the
fences. Around the corner he bumped and tinkled, and up over a little hill.
My recollections of my attendant sensations at that time are rather hazy. The
principal thing I remember is that I felt crushed—crushed in body and spirit—to think
that such a kindly appearing old man could be a bandit and a murderer. For at that
time there seemed no other explanation but that he tried to murder me and kidnap my
previously faithful old Elizabeth. But perhaps not he but the Elizabeth herself was
to blame. Perhaps, feeling some one at the wheel, with me lying prostrate in front of
her wheels, she thought that she was a reincarnation of Elizabeth of historical fame
and that I was trying to out-gallant Sir Walter in trying to keep her dainty tires free
from the soiling (or soily) mud.
Whatever the cause was, I remember the effect was brought home to me through
the medium of my chest, as flat as my pocket-book after 4th of July. I am quite sure
that I felt none of the ecstasy that Adam was reported to have experienced when his
fifth rib had first been pressed to his bosom.
I had struggled to a sitting posture, meditating on the inherent cupidity of man in
general and one Cornell professor in particular, when I was thrown into fresh panic at
the sight of a dishevelled figure with touseled hair and streaming coat tails rushing over
the hill toward me. It took but a minute for me to realize the significance of this
strategic move. No doubt the professor had looked back as he dashed over the hill to
see me sitting up, and, realizing that he had not killed me, was coming back to do so.
But after my first feeling of consternation, I felt more relieved and more kindly toward
him to think he would put me out of my misery. If, however, he intended to use the
other car to do so, I intended to voice a protest and to try to persuade him to use a
monkey wrench or something more humane and painless because of its speedier dispatch.
As he labored, puffing, up the hill, and before I could say anything, he cried, "You
live! You live!" And then apologetically, "I am sure you will pardon my inadvertent
and careless manipulation of the complex mechanism of your motor car; for, as I said
before, I am a green driver. No doubt you were once green yourself?"
He ended questioningly, evidently overcome by emotion. He seemed to want me to
speak so I said, "Yes, I was green once, but I am ripe now—ripe for murder."
Seeing a wild look come into his eyes and fearing he might be a maniac whom it
would not be safe to arouse further in my present condition, I hastened to add, "But I
am too ripe. I am so ripe I am as mellow as a bruised apple. I am as tender as a
pounded beefsteak. I am as harmless as a mashed potato."
Page 178
Date
1923
Rights
St. Ambrose University, 518 W. Locust St., Davenport, IA 52803
Identifier
http://cdm16810.contentdm.oclc.org/cdm/ref/collection/p16810coll2/id/7789