A unique feature of the car was its pair of headlights. These, to put it plainly, were cross-eyed. Their columns of light formed an X on the smooth highways. Townsend had done his best to cure this affliction but had only made it worse. The lights had a way of joggling back to their eccentric posture. Nuts, wrenches, wire and clothesline, were all in vain. Townsend’s car could not look you in the face. Townsend had not reached the age at which a citizen of New Jersey is thought to be qualified to drive a car. His was one of those cases where a license may be secured under the requisite age, upon satisfactory proof of competency. He was just seventeen. The exact age of the car is unknown. It was undoubtedly old enough to enjoy the respect due to age. But it did not enjoy this respect—far from it. To see Townsend sitting upright on the front seat of his flivver, utterly regardless of the mirth it occasioned, was as good as a circus. Long familiarity with the car’s eccentricities had given him a sort of magic power over it, so that it would obey him as a dog obeys its master. Certain it is that it would never start for anybody but Townsend. And it is a fact that when he said “_lay down_” to it, it would stop. Some said that these words of stern command were never uttered until the engine had already made up its mind to “lay down.” If that is the case then Townsend must always have sensed its intention well in advance, for it invariably complied with his mandate. On the morning following Pee-wee’s trip up to Westwood, the Townsend flivver rolled up to Pee-wee’s home with Townsend at the wheel, looking as if he were running a Rolls-Royce. In the rear seat sat Mr. and Mrs. Ripley. Townsend pushed the horn button but the horn did not honk. He then took the crank, which was lying on the floor, and reaching through the opened windshield struck the hood with it. Instantly the horn began to honk and would not stop honking till he hit the hood again. Townsend did all this as a matter of course. Presently our hero, laboring under a mountain of luggage, appeared. “Can you take all this?” he called. Townsend would never admit that there was anything he could not carry in his Ford; if Pee-wee had appeared with a piano, his answer would have been the same. “Sure thing,” he called cheerily; “the more the merrier.” It required a few minutes for Doctor and Mrs. Harris to chat with Mr. and Mrs. Ripley and wish them a pleasant summer and to say, “A Ford always gets you there.” “Yes, but it’s so outlandish,” said Mrs. Ripley; “I positively think that Townsend is proud of it. But it’s really amusing. Townsend, make it say good-by for Doctor Harris. Doctor, I just want you to listen to it.” “Giddap!” said Townsend soberly. “Say good-by.” As it started the car gave forth a weird noise which was not unlike the words _good-by_. A parrot would have to practice long to say it as well.