Читать книгу The Adventures of a Woman Hobo - Ethel Lynn - Страница 8

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May 4th. In a big barn.

We are off!

Sunday dawned bright and clear and Dan and I were up with the first light. The neighbourhood assembled to receive our few poor sticks of furniture and household goods, for we deemed it best to give the things to our poverty-stricken neighbours rather than sell them for a few pennies to some secondhand dealer.

Our friends think us insane, as well they may, but crazy or no, we will see this thing through.

We surely made a picture at the start. Dan’s blue eyes were alight with eagerness, his fair hair tousled, while his sturdy body showed to good advantage in sweater, corduroys and cap. I wore a dark shirtwaist, short plaid skirt, blue sweater and straw sailor hat. At the last moment we fastened a small parcel of groceries atop the bedding roll—a bit of bacon, a loaf of bread, a pat of butter and one or two other odds and ends. Altogether, the machine was well loaded.

Then, followed by the cheers of the crowd who were busy carrying away the contents of our room, and accompanied by a horde of shoving, shouting urchins, we made our way up the street. At the corner of Division Street we paused to weigh ourselves and wheel, and found the combination tipped the scales at just five hundred pounds.

Pushing on to a clear bit of pavement, we mounted and were off toward the west side. Both Dan and I had ridden bicycles at earlier periods in our career, and had spent a little time in Lincoln Park practising on the tandem, but we were far from being expert riders. The double steering gear which should enable the man to help the woman steady the front wheel was broken, so, loaded as we were, I found the task of steering a difficult one.

As we wobbled our serpentine way through the streets, fortunately nearly empty at that early hour, it seemed to me that this was the strangest nightmare that ever vexed the soul of woman. There was a weird beauty in the morning light, the breath of freedom in the gentle breeze. The spirit of adventure rode with us. I had a feeling of detachment from earthly things while realising to the full the perils and difficulties of the venture.

An ash can in the street caught my eye. With incredible accuracy I headed for it.

“Hi!” cried Dan, “look where you’re going.”

“Good gracious,” I answered desperately, “that’s just what I’m trying not to do.”

Bang! Quite a spill, but no harm done luckily.

When we reached Humboldt Park, we decided to take a short rest. Propping our machine against the curb, we sat on a bench beneath a tree. While aimlessly poking the litter at its base with my toe, I saw something glitter.

“Look, Dan!” I exulted. “See what I’ve found. Talk of manna in the wilderness.” I held up a silver dollar, a half and two dimes. “I feel sure it is an omen.”

“Yes, an omen of fresh eggs for breakfast to-morrow morning,” replied Dan prosaically.

Once again we were off. The day wore on. Streets gave way to dusty roads full of ruts, into which the wheel appeared possessed to stagger. Dust rose; sweat poured; our throats ached with unquenchable thirst. My arms seemed wrenched from their sockets. Human endurance reached its limit as the sun set.

Wearily we searched for a camping place. Finally, in a grassy hollow, screened from the road by trees, we unpacked our equipment. While Dan took the potato kettle to a near-by house for water, I set up our wire rack and kindled a tiny fire beneath.

After a meal which we were almost too tired to eat, we spread our scanty bedding on the ground and composed ourselves for slumber. An owl settled on a branch near our heads and surveyed us with amazement. Back and forth he flew, studying the strange intruders from every angle. Then with a “hoot” of protest and derision, he winged away to attend to the business of the evening.

“Ugh, this ground is hard,” grunted Dan.

“And none too warm,” thought I, but neither cold nor discomfort could prevail for long against our utter exhaustion.

I sat up with a start. A grey day was breaking; the trees rustled in a wind that moaned and muttered with chilly breath. Big drops of rain beat on my face.

“Quick, Dan, get up!” I cried to the snoring partner of my dreams. “It’s going to pour down rain in a few minutes.”

We scurried around, collecting and packing our scattered belongings, then decided to make a dash for a big barn which stood not far down the road at the foot of a hill, for the rain was beginning to fall heavily. Reaching the highway, we sprang to saddle and sped down the hill. With a sickening lurch the front wheel struck a slippery patch of mud at the bottom, the hind wheel skidding sideways. The heel of my right shoe caught in the pedal shaft and in a trice was torn from my foot and sent spinning ten feet away. Dan went sprawling on the wet earth, while I hopped awkwardly along, bruising my shins, but clinging desperately to the handle bars with both hands.

Dan picked himself up and came to my assistance.

“Pick up my heel, please,” said I, standing like a stork on one foot. Dan stared at me dazedly. “Pick up my heel,” I cried impatiently. He reached for my foot. “Do you think I’m a horse waiting to be shod? Don’t you see the heel of my shoe lying over there in the mud?”

With that he retrieved the loosened heel and we hurried through the steady downpour to the barn. The owner came out and, having listened to our tale of woe, gave us some shingle nails to repair the torn shoe and bade us build a fire beneath a shed to prepare breakfast. Dan fulfilled the augury of the previous day by the purchase of some fresh eggs, and soon we were feasting on bacon and eggs and pints of steaming coffee.

Good? Why nectar and ambrosia were stale beside it.

After the meal, we repaired to the barn loft and, easing our weary bones into the prickly depths of hay, awaited the end of the storm.