Chapter I.

Old Mrs. Gladbury was an exceedingly wealthy old woman, and although she had reached the four-score-year-and-ten mark, she was still in possession of most of her faculties, as was evidenced by the fact that she did not own a motor car.

One might conclude from the foregoing that Mrs. Gladbury was a very mean old woman. This, however, was not the case. She was an exceedingly generous old soul, and while she

“It is impossible for one slow train to pass another on a narrow line.”

did not give to everybody who asked, she certainly gave to everything worth while, without being asked.

Chapter II.

Mrs. Gladbury had no particular grudge against the motor car itself. What grieved her, however, was the fact that the motor car had been responsible for landing so many respectable people in gaol.

The very thought of a gaol was anathema to old lady Gladbury, and she certainly had no intentions of tempting the devil by buying a motor car.

So, while her less favoured neighbours stampeded around the country in “our car,” Mrs. Gladbury was quite content to travel in peace and comfort in “our train.”

Chapter III.

It was when a new motor salesman arrived in the village that things began to happen as far as Mrs. Gladbury was concerned.

Mrs. Gladbury was about the only person ot

“Old Mrs. Gladbury did not own a motor car.”

page 20 note in the village to whom the new salesman had not sold one of the latest “Tipemup” cars, saloon model, with steerage brakes.

The new motor car salesman had served his apprenticeship to salesmanship with a secotine solicitor, and when he once got in touch with anyhody, it took more than a strong man's bluff or a weak woman's poodle to drive him off.

So, when it became known that the new salesman was taking Mrs. Gladbury for a run to the city and back with a view to selling her a new “Tipemup” car, the high-heads of the village wagged their chins, and gurgled, “What did I tell you?”

Chapter IV.

Unfortunately for the salesman with the secotine complex, it happened to be the potholey season in the main highway trade.

Notwithstanding the ingenuity of the car salesman in reducing the bumps per gallon to a minimum, it was quite evident that with each succeeding bump Mrs. Gladbury's bump of motor car antipathy expanded accordingly.

“Pretty rough road,” said the car salesman, in extenuation of the crime.

“I thought it was the car,” said Mrs. Gladbury.

“Oh, no,” said the salesman; “it's the potholes. “It's difficult to keep out of them.”

“Still,” said Mrs. Gladbury, “the car hasn't missed many.”

“The trouble is,” said the salesman, “the roads are far too flimsy for the motors.”

“Or, perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Gladbury, “the cars are too flimsy for the roads.”

The car salesman could now see that the pothole question was going to have a most disturbing effect on the sale of the “Tipemup,” so he said: “You won't notice the potholes so much on the return journey.”

“I'm sure I shan't,” rejoined Mrs. Gladbury.

Chapter IV.

On arrival in the city it was arranged to leave again on the return journey at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, the car salesman undertaking to pick Mrs. Gladbury up at the garage.

“An old dog for a hard road,” says the old maxim. Mrs. Gladbury, however, had neither the intention nor the inclination to emulate the eccentricities of the old dog.

Mrs. Gladbury was a sensible old lady, and she preferred to ride comfortably on a smooth line rather than be buffeted about on a hard, potholey road.

When the car salesman stepped into the “Tipemup” on the return journey, there was attached to the steering wheel a note, which read:

“I certainly shan't notice the potholes on the return journey. Am going back by train.”

Moral: Travel by rail and see the road beautiful.