“Broken-down nothing!  With the exception of a busted drive-shaft, a cracked crank-case, a loose steering-wheel, a bum battery, a dilapidated differential and faulty ignition, it is just as good as new.  Outside of buying four sets of tires, three new springs, a new top, two rear axles, a couple of batteries, having the valves ground sixteen times, the clutch tightened every week and the self-starter repaired now and then, I have never spent one cent for repairs.  The old boat hasn’t been run a mile over one hundred thousand, will average fourteen gallons to the mile, and absolutely will not exceed twenty-five miles an hour.  It has an extra-fine new coat of paint, and is fully equipped with a hand pump and switch-key.  Because of the difficulty in shifting gears, I absolutely guarantee your wife will never be able to drive it, and—­”

“Never mind the rest.  I’ll take it!”

“I thought you owned an automobile.”

“I do, but I taught the wife to drive it, and now I’m back to the street-cars.”

“Say, Rastus, I done see de funniest thing t’day.”

“How come, niggah?”

“I seed an ottermobile with its reah license B—­4.”

“Say, bo, doan hand me no truck lak that.”—­Judge.

The only trouble with a 60-horse-power motor is that every darned horse balks at the same time.

BILL—­“Just happened to run into an old friend down-town.”

PHIL—­“Was he glad to see you?”

BILL—­“You bet not.  I smashed his whole right fender.”

“My brother bought a motor here last week,” said an angry man to the salesman that stepped up to greet him, “and he said if anything broke you would supply him with new parts.”

“Certainly,” said the salesman.  “What does he want?”

“He wants two deltoid muscles, a couple of kneecaps, one elbow, and about half a yard of cuticle,” said the man, “and he wants them at once.”

An elderly lady of very prim and severe aspect was seated next a young couple, who were discussing the merits of their motor-cars.

“What color is your body?” asked the young man of the girl at his side, meaning of course, the body of her motor.

“Oh, mine is pink.  What is yours?”

“Mine,” replied the man, “is brown with wide yellow stripes.”

This was too much for the old lady.  Rising from the table, she exclaimed: 

“When young people come to asking each other the color of their bodies at a dinner-party, it is time I left the room.”

“Why didn’t you stop when I signaled you?” inquired the officer.

“Well,” replied Mr. Chuggins, “it had taken me two hours to get this old flivver started, and it seemed a shame to stop her merely to avoid a little thing like being arrested.”

Who Can Tell?