When Clayton Blake, driving to Gastonia on a recent night, had his first puncture, he thought a good many things, but he said nothing. When Blake had his second puncture, he told a companion that was bad luck.
When Blake had his sixth puncture, the censor got busy and said it wouldn’t do to let the enemy get on to the remarks and he pointedly ordered the words to be kept out of print.
Blake had about worn his fingernails to the quick. He had grease and dirt mixed up on his arms and face and clothes in finished style. The last remnant of patience had flickered out and his physical stability was running on the rims. Blake had about come to the conclusion that life held no more charms for him.
“Need any help?” called out a passing autoist, as he drew up beside the lame car in a neighborly sort of fashion.
“Gosh, yes,” said Blake. “I need a car that will run. I am trying to get somewhere, and I’ll be blamed if it doesn’t look like I am going to have to crawl.”
“What kind of a boat you running?” asked the newcomer.
“Buick,” said Blake. “Good car all right, but it’s tires I need. I million dollar body wouldn’t get anywhere on this bunch of rubber junk.”
“Swap you my Maxwell for it,” said the new-comer.
“When?” shot back Blake, as he slowly straightened his back, by now stiffened from the hours of labor.
“Right now,” said the new-comer.
“You are on,” said Blake.
And Clayton Blake left his lame Buick in the hands of the new-comer, while he and his companion got into the Maxwell and completed their journey.
From The Charlotte News, Sunday morning, July 10, 1921
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