There is every excuse for relying helplessly on an expert mechanic if you have no mechanical ingenuity, or are averse to getting dirty and grimy; but that is not automobiling; it is being run about in a huge perambulator.

The real chauffeur knows every moment by the sound and “feel” of his machine exactly what it is doing, the amount of gasoline it is taking, whether the lubrication is perfect, the character and heat of the spark, the condition of almost every screw, nut, and bolt, and he runs his machine accordingly; at the first indication of anything wrong he stops and takes the stitch in time that saves ninety and nine later.  The sham chauffeur sits at the wheel, and in the security of ignorance runs gayly along until his machine is a wreck; he may have hours, days, or even weeks of blind enjoyment, but the end is inevitable, and the repairs costly; then he blames every one but himself,—­blames the maker for not making a machine that may be operated by inexperience forever, blames the men in his stable for what reason he knows not, blames the roads, the country, everything and everybody—­but himself.

It is amusing to hear the sham chauffeur talk.  When things go well, he does it; when they go wrong, it is the fault of some one else; if he makes a successful run, the mechanic with him is a nonentity; if he breaks down, the mechanic is his only resource.  It is more interesting to hear the mechanic—­the real chauffeur —­talk when he is flat on his back making good the mistakes of his master, but his conversation could not be printed verbatim et literatim,—­it is explosive and without a muffler.

The man who cannot run his machine a thousand miles without expert assistance should make no pretense to being a chauffeur, for he is not one.  The chauffeur may use mechanics whenever he can find them; but if he can’t find them, he gets along just as well; and when he does use them it is not for information and advice, but to do just the things he wants done and no more.  The skilled enthusiast would not think of letting even an expert from the factory do anything to his machine, unless he stood over him and watched every movement; as soon would a lover of horses permit his hostlers to dope his favorite mount.

CHAPTER TWO THE MACHINE USED MAKING READY TO START

The machine was just an ordinary twelve hundred dollar single-cylinder American machine, with neither improvements nor attachments to especially strengthen it for a long tour; and it had seen constant service since January without any return to the shop for repairs.

It was rated eight and one-half horse-power; but, as every one knows, American machines are overrated as a rule, while foreign machines are greatly underrated.  A twelve horse-power American machine may mean not more than eight or ten; a twelve horse-power French machine, with its four cylinders, means not less than sixteen.