The Auto-comrade can sit down with you in thick weather on a barren lighthouse rock and give you a breathless day by hanging upon the walls of fog the mellow screeds of old philosophies, and causing to march and countermarch over against them the scarlet and purple pageants of history. Hour by hour, too, he will linger with you in the metropolis, that breeder of the densest solitudes,--in market or morgue, subway, library, or lobby,--and hour by hour unlock you those chained books of the soul to which the human countenance offers the master key. Something of a sportsman, too, is the Auto-comrade. He it is who makes the fabulously low score at golf--the kind of score, by the way, that is almost invariably born to blush unseen. And he will uncomplainingly, even zestfully, fish from dawn to dusk in a solitude so complete that there is not even a fin to break it. But if there are fish, he finds them. He knows how to make the flies float indefinitely forward through yonder narrow opening, and drop, as light as thistledown, in the center of the temptingly inaccessible pool. He knows without looking exactly how thick and prehensile are the bushes and branches that lie in wait for the back cast, and he can calculate to a grain how much urging the sulky four-pounder and the blest tie that binds him to the four-ounce rod will stand. He is one of the handiest possible persons to have along in the woods. When you take him on a canoe-trip with others, and the party comes to “white water,” he turns out to be a dead shot at rapid-shooting. He is sure to know what to do at the supreme moment when you jam your setting-pole immutably between two rocks and, with the alternative of making a hole in the water, are forced to let it go and grab your paddle. And before you have time to reflect that the pale-face in the bow can be depended upon to do just one thing at such a time, and that is the exact opposite of what you are urging him to do, you are hung up on a slightly submerged rock at the head of the chief rapid just in time to see the rest of the party disappear around the lower bend. At such a time, simply look to the Auto-comrade. He will carry you through. Also there is no one like him at the moment when, having felled your moose, leaned your rifle against a tree, and bent down the better to examine him, the creature suddenly comes back to life. In tennis, when you wake up to find that your racket has just smashed a lob on the bounce from behind the court, making a clean ace between your paralyzed opponents, you ought to know that the racket was guided by that superior sportsman; and if you are truly modest, you will admit that the miraculous triple play wherewith your team whisked the base-ball championship out of the fire in the fourteenth inning was pulled off by the unaided efforts of a certain Young Men’s Christian Association of Auto-comrades.