“Well, it ain’t me, Abe,” Morris protested, “and just to show you, Abe, me and Minnie wants you and Rosie you should come out and take dinner with us on Sunday, and afterwards we could go out for a ride in the runabout.”

“Gott soll hueten,” Abe replied piously.

“What d’ye mean!” Morris cried.  “You wouldn’t come out and have dinner with us?”

“Sure, we will come to dinner, Mawruss,” Abe said, “but if we want to go for a ride, Mawruss, a trolley car is good enough for Rosie and me.”

Nevertheless the following Sunday found Abe and Rosie snugly enclosed in the detachable tonneau of the Appalachian runabout, while Morris sat at the tiller with Minnie by his side and negotiated the easy grades of rural Long Island at the decent speed of ten miles an hour.

“Ain’t it wonderful,” Abe exclaimed, “what changes comes about in a couple of years already!  Former times when a lodge brother died, I used to think the ride out to Cypress Hills was a pleasure already, Mawruss, but when I think how rotten the roads was and what poor accommodations them carriages was compared to this, Mawruss, I’m surprised that I could have enjoyed myself at all.  This here oitermobile riding is something what you would call really comfortable, Mawruss.”

But Abe’s observations were ill-timed, for hardly had he finished speaking when the runabout slowed down to the accompaniment of loud explosions in the muffler.  Rosie’s shrieks mingled with Abe’s exclamations, and when at length the car came to a stand-still and the explosions ceased Abe scrambled down and helped out the half-fainting Rosie.

“Any car is liable to do that,” Morris explained as Minnie searched for a bottle of liquid restorative.  “I could fix it in five minutes.”

At length Minnie found the bottle in the tire box, which contained, instead of a tire, two dozen sandwiches, eight cold frankfurters, some dill pickles and a ringkuchen, for they did not contemplate returning to Johnsonhurst until long past supper time.

Morris’ estimate of the repair job’s duration proved slightly inaccurate.  He messed around with his tool bag and explored the carburetter again and again until two hours had elapsed without result.  During this period only a few motor cars had passed, for the road was not a popular automobile thoroughfare.  At length a large red car bore down on them, and as it came within a hundred yards it slowed down and came to a stop beside the Appalachian runabout.

“Well, well,” cried a familiar voice, “if this ain’t the whole firm of Potash & Perlmutter.”

Abe looked up.

“Hallo, Kleebaum,” he exclaimed, “I thought you was home in Minneapolis.  What are you doing in New York?”

“This ain’t New York by about forty miles,” Kleebaum replied.  He was seated at the side of a square-jawed professional chauffeur who eyed with ill-concealed mirth Morris’ very unprofessional handling of automobile tools.