MILE-o-MINUTE MoM MAGAZINE

By "Hap" Hazard aka ZR1Randy

Last Update: 10/24/2004

 

 

Volume I #2  5/1/04

THE STORY OF OUR TRAVELS: CONTINUED –

A Strange Host

 

We were driving through an awful stretch of country. Somehow the little ZR1 seemed to be lamenting her fate of going where MoM wanted to go instead of where “she” wanted to go.  We had to go pretty slow.  The roads were punk and it was poor land, with farm houses very scarce. Our left back tire was going flat every 10 miles, and we didn't make a mile a minute that day. It was awful. MoM was grumpy and so was I. We didn't talk much, lest we sassed each other, and we didn't stop any place to get a bite to eat. We had $2.61 between us, but we couldn't use it because we never hit a place where we could spend it. "Lordy," I says to myself, "don't no­body live here atall'! Where's their houses if they do?"

 

We kept on agoing and agoing. It was fierce. It didn’t even seem like pretty land.  The further we went the further we seemed to get away from living things. At last, when the roads got so bad I couldn't stand it no longer, I says to MoM:

"Where are we, anyhow?"

 

"Looks like nowhere," he said; "there oughtn't be such a place as this, my friend ZR1Randy."

"No," I says; "shouldn't even be on the map by rights, and it prob’ly isn’t."

 

“I hate to drive this sweet ZR1 in such terrible dirt.  I will be cleaning her for a week,” said MoM.  I knew it was true.

With that we fell to keeping still again, and, kept agoing. I was satis­fied to keep still just as long as we

could keep going. I was wondering how much further that old back tire would hold out before MoM would have to get out and fix her again. Seemed like it was always the passenger side rear tire that wore out fast even though both wheels acted together with the positraction.  MoM did like to spin ‘em though, and when he gave her a little too much, he started that awful spin around to the right like he did the first day - that could have been a big reason that one tire went first.  I kept waiting and hoping that LOW TIRE PRESSURE warning light wouldn’t come on again, but it did, and did, and did.  It became sort of a pass-the-time game to wish and hope the little orange light on the dash info center would stay out.  But wishing never accomplishes much and I was trying to figure out something to actually DO about it when it lit up again.  I thought I heard a low moan in the back of my mind and I was beginning to understand where it came from.  We pumped up the tire again and MoM spit on it for good luck this time. 

 

But if we had bad luck in every other way we had luck in this that the tire didn't blow any more. Then came the evening, and we still kept on agoing. Night came and MoM switched on our headlights, and, believe me, it was the only light showing around anywhere. As long as I live I never expect to see such lonesome, God­-forsaken country as that.

 

"There's a light," said MoM to me of a sudden; "that's where we stop tonight, ol’ ZR1Randy”.  It still seemed a little odd to hear my name like that, but MoM seemed to like it, and so did I actually.

 

"Where?" I asked. "I ain't seen any light yet, ol’ ZR1MoM."  I thought I would add the prefix to his moniker too and see if he noticed, but he didn’t.  Or at least he didn’t say anything about it right then.

 

"No, you won't see it now," he says; "it just flashed through the trees for a second, on the left. This yere road makes a bend to the left in a minute here now, lookee, y' see "

 

Yeah now I could see it, a dim little light through the trees. MoM stepped on all the gas and we could hear that lovely LT5 purr proudly again.  No more inching along for us when MoM smelled civilization.  I knew he was as hungry as I was, and wanted to reach that place as quick as he could, hoping that somebody who had lighted that lamp had a sandwich left or something to eat – anything.  MoM really knew how to drive that old Z, and hit 140 a couple of times and braked like a pro to get us around the tighter bends in the road.  But that old road kept a twisting and a turning so it fooled us about the nearness of the light, cause it was much further away than we thought it was when we first saw it. I bet it was a half an hour till we got near enough to make out that the light came through a window in a little farmhouse; a two ­story house with a lean-to porch in front, and a dog howling inside a gate in the picket fence.

 

The siren-song noise of our LT5 motor brought out a tall, big-nosed man, with long hair and a moustache that hung down on each side of his chin like rope ends. He yelled something to us, but I couldn't hear him for the noise.  MoM had opened up the muffler pipes with the special little knobs he devised on the sides of each muffler and it really was loud that away.  But he liked it best when it was loud and so did I.

 

"Stop that sweet LT5 engine, MoM," I said, "he might be asking us to stay for supper."

"WHAR Y0' Y0UNGSTERS GOIN’ TO?"

 

With one last loud symphony the motor hushed up and the tall man came out of the gate in the picket fence.

"Whar yo' youngsters goin' to?" he asked us in a low deep voice.

 

"We already come to where we was a-goin' to, Mister," says MoM, laugh­in; "This is the end, o' our travels for today."

 

"Haw-haw," laughed the tail man; "yo' all didn't write me no note yo' all was comin', but I am sho' glad to see yo' all.   This here is a ZR1 and all ZR1-ers are welcome as fam’ly at our home.  Come on in, come on in and make yo'alls self to home. We be only pore folks out here, but yo' alls welcome to what we has. Come on in."

 

We hopped out and followed him to the door through which the light was now streaming upon the road. All around the house was darkness; dark­ness and the blotchy shadows of great trees that grew about as thick as trees could grow and live. It was like stepping out of black into white, and the light inside the room made us blink. A pretty woman was putting away supper dishes.  She was obviously older than us, but didn’t seem to fit with an old codger like her husband.

 

"We got comp'ny, Carina," says the tall man with a funny little laugh; "reckon yo' c'n set 'em some vittels as like as not. They be hongry, and mos' tired to death, looks like to me. Been ridin' all day, 'pears like. Do fetch 'em out a snack."

 

He motioned toward a stand where there was a basin and a bucket of water with a dipper in it. We went and washed our faces and hands, while the man took a chair and leaned it against the wall, then sat down and began to smoke a pipe, watching us all the while.

 

"Keep yer eye on him, Rand," whis­pered Milo to me. "Somethin’ makes me not trust him none - keep yer eye peeled for trouble.”  So I kept my eye on the tall man. I watched him out the corner of my eye when he would be looking at us. And he always seemed to be smiling, as if he was satisfied that we had come into his house. I wondered what it was that he was thinking about. Most folks wouldn't like to have two tramps like MoM and me come in on 'em after supper and make 'em a lot of trouble setting us out something to eat, and all like that. But this old geezer with his long hanging mustache watched us and smiled. Sometimes I even thought he nodded his head, as if he was tell­ing himself he was glad that we had come and that it was a good thing we were in his house.

 

We finished washing up, and the man stood up and put three chairs to the table. We each took a seat; and the tall man took the chair across from us, and smoked his pipe and watched us.

 

"Who be yo' all?" he asked.

 

"You tell him, Hap," says Milo to me. "You're my biografter, ain’t you?"

 

THIS is Mile-o-Minute MoM," I says, waving my hand toward my companion, "and he is goin' to be famous some day. He lives -up to his name-Mile-o-Minute-when he wants to. He hardly ever drives less than sixty – that equals a mile-o-minute you know.”  No speed wagon on the road can stay in front of us if we feel like going 3 miles a minute either. And my name's Hazard - ­they call me `Happy' back there where I came from, Though I ain't been much happy in my life."

 

"Used to know a Hazard," says the tall man, "he was farmin' a place, but but it didn't turn out well at all. Maybe you be a relation o' his'n.  What did yo' say yer first name was, sonny."

 

"Happy," I says again; "most folks just call me 'Hap.'

 

"Hap," he repeated! "Hap Hazard! Tain't much o' a name, shore. Reckon yo' all are crazy and hap­hazard to risk yo' all's life in that consarned machine, running sich a fast clip. Whar yo' all bound fer?"

 

"All 'round the world," says MoM, quickly; "everywhere--an 'cross the sea, too. You see this machine I fixed up myself don't stop for water or nothing' - just keeps on agoing same as on a road."

 

The tall man laughed; his pipe fell out of his mouth; he tried to grab it, but it got away from him and hit the floor, and the sparks went scattering. The lady, coming in just then with a platter of meat, jumped over and stamped her feet on the rag car­pet to put out the sparks, and then she began to scold the old man in a loud voice-I think she was scolding him, although it must of been some foreign language, because us boys couldn't understand a word she said. He just sat and listened until she finished and went out. Then when he was sure she was out of the room he began again.  “You know I has a ZR1 too, me and Carina.  It was give to us by our son that knows how to fix ‘em up pretty good too.  Bet you would like to meet him and see the big barn where he works on ZR1’s and makes ‘em crazy fast.” 

 

“Where’s your ZR1 if you got one then,” says MoM in a tone I didn’t understand.

 

“She is out getting fixed up super fast for the past 2 year by my son and the absent-minded perfesser like I was tellin’ you.” 

 

Said our host.

 

“Well I wouldn’t be leavin’ my ZR1 with anybody for a year, we have to get all around the world, you know.  And if you get time, show your kid the www.zr1.net where we got all there is to know about fixin ZR1’s andif it ain’t there, you can email a whole passel of ZR1-ers who will find out anything for you.”  Said Mom.

 

"I’ll do ‘er, and let you know, but right now we ain’t got no computer what works.  All 'round the world you say -pshaw! yo' all's crazy, shore enough. What's yer Pappy say about it?" He turned this question upon MoM.

 

"Wish I had one,," said MoM; "and if I had I would’a took him along with me. 'Taint everybody who can git a chanst to go 'round the world, mister. I'd ask you to come with us, but 'tain't no use, yer feet's too long, you wouldn't fit in my little car."

 

"Yas," said the man, "I reckon so; I allus been too long and lanky in my life; can't ever get a bed long enough for me to sleep in lessen I double up like a pocket knife. It's beat me outa lots in life, sonny."

 

-"Why don't you build yerself a long bed?" asked Milo. 'How'd I ever git a machine, I ask ya, with no daddy to give me money, or nothin' I built it back up m'self after she was wrecked and killed my Pop. An' it's a dern sight fast­er'n any you can buy with money. Tell ya what, I'll take ya for a spin in the mornin' fore we leave. Then you can say you rode a mile-o-minute. You'll have something to crow about then, mister."

 

The old man puffed his pipe and shook his head.

 

"'Taint no use, I told yer," he said; "how'd you git my long lags into thet little ottermobile? Yo' see, I wuz jist born unlucky, son.

 

 I ain't never had no fun in my life, and I ain't never goin to have.  My own ZR1 is bein’ fixed with space for my long legs." 

 

"Too bad,' said Milo.

 

"Ask them chillern to eat, Marc Jefferson Randolf!" cried the woman from the other room; "how long yo' think I gotta stay up this night, I want t' know."     

 

The man took his pipe from his mouth in a hurry.

 

"Eat," he whispered, "don't git Carina mad any more. She gits ter­rible huffy when she gits cross. I can't do nothin' with her.

 

 Eat!"

 

So we ate. The meat was good, and the corn bread not so much, but we were glad to get it, because we were hungry. And when you're hun­gry anything that's fair to eat tastes good, even if you never liked it before. So we ate, and we ate hearty. By the time we were finished the meat platter was cleaner than Carina would ever be able to wash it, and the crumbs that we left on the cornbread dish wouldn't have kept a canary alive two days.

 

"Yo' all said somethin' erbout leavin' in the mornin'." said Silas Crabble; "thet means I gotta fix yo' all up a bed?"

 

It sure do," said Milo,"an' if ya ain't got,' a bed to spare, lead us to the hayloft, if ya got a hayloft.    And if ya aint got no hay loft, show us a place on the floor where nobody won't stumble over us, and where yer barkin' hound ain't liable to sniff us and bite a chunk out o' us. It ain't goin' to take no featherbed to make me close my dreamy eyes tonight, mister."

 

Marc Randolf seemed to like to hear MoM talk; I could tell that by the way he would chuckle.

 

"I'll ask Carina," he says, and he goes into the other room, leaving me and MoM alone for a minute.

 

"Listen here, Hap," says MoM to me, as soon as the old man was gone; "I feel funny in this house. 'Taint like it's natural.

 

 How's it strike you?"

 

"Oh, all right, I guess," I says. "I ain't feeling no ways funny, MoM. Seems like this old man is good and kind hearted. He's willing to find us a place to sleep. He's all right, I guess. Seems like maybe the old lady al­ways gives him the dickens and he's afraid of her. I guess it would be all right to sleep here if we got a chance, MoM."

 

MoM shook his head.

 

"Watch him smile to himself some­times," he said; "that smile o' his'n ain't natural, Hap. He's got some­thing up his sleeve, that old man has. He was too durn glad to get us in here to suit me. And I don’t think he is telling the truth about owning a ZR1 either.  He don’t seem to know nothin’ about the car and the engine nor the ZR1.net which naturally ain’t natural.  And there ain’t a single picture of a ZR1 in this whole house.  I ain’t never seen a ZR1 owner without stacks of photos of their car layin around for every body to look at.  I wish’t he wouldn't of been so glad to see us, Rand."

 

"I don't," I says, "I like for people to act like they are glad, to see me." "An' you don't think--" says MoM.

 

"No, nothin' to be afraid of. Just go to sleep, MoM, and wake up in the morning like as if this was yer home, and wait till they serve breakfast, and then start out in the little old ZR1 again. But don't forget this one thing: Wait till they serve breakfast. Then go._"

 

"You always think of eatin'," said MoM in disgust; "I could go 10 days and 10 nights without food, Rand." "What'd you want to do that for?"  Says me.

 

Well, I feel right now like we'd best be going on. I'd feel a heap safer if I was out of this spooky house, Rand."

 

"Spooky? how come you to get that notion, MoM? You ain't seen no spooks."

 

"I don't have to see 'em.      There's a funny feeling about this old stale house."

 

"Your supper didn't agree with you, MoM," I says; "we come here and eat their meat, and it's up to us to show our respeck.

 

 We got to sleep where they put us, and say thank you ma’am in the morning -  after they serve breakfast remember."

 

"All right, all right," says MoM; "I'll sleep in this old shack then; but listen here, Hap Hazard, if anything happens in this old house tonight, ex­cuse me if I remind you that I give you fair warning. If we wake up and find ourselves beggin' of St. Peter to let us in-"

 

"You talk like a fish sometimes, MoM," I says; "I ain't afraid o' nothin. Let's get some sleep."

 

Marc Randolf came back into the room.

 

"Carina says to the attic," he began; "there's a spare bed up there. Come on, if yo' all's so tired, I'll take yo' right up."

 

He lit the candle and led the way up the creaking stairs. We followed close on his heels, I saw him push open a plain old door that warbled a tune on its rusty hinges like some kind of an old-fashioned music box. We stepped inside.

 

"'Taint been used since four years ago last Thanksgivin' time," says Marc Randolf; "it bein' a good bed, howsomever, I reckon it'll shore do for yo' all, bein' yer so tired out with ridin'.'

 

"Sure," I said, "it's fine, Mister Randolf, fine."

 

He turned upon me sudden like, and held the candle to my face.

 

"Yo' know me, son?" he asked; "how come yo' know my name like that, when I aint never set  eyes on

yo' afore "

 

I had to laugh at him. He looked scared. "I heard the lady call you Randolf," I says, "I guessed your name.  May be I'm wrong. I hope I ain't hurt your feelings none." "No," he said, drawing the candle aside, "yo' was right. Randolf is my name. I see, Yo' jist heered her call me that. All right. thinkin' maybe yo' belonged to that bad Misled crowd down  in Dallas proper. Dern if yo' don’t look like a Misled, shore.  I ain't forgot nothin'  them mean ol’ Misled’s done to us over the years.  An your name bein’ HapHazard is pretty close in meanin’ to Misled too ain’t it?”   He lit the candle in the room..  G^’ night to yo' all.".   We heard his heavy footstep on the stairs as he went down.        

 

"You ain't gonna undress, Rand?" asked MoM. "Why not?" I asked; "I ‘m used to sleepin in my clothes MoM. I got to be comf'table when I sleep, else I don't sleep.”   So MoM says, “Take offen yer shirt and pants. How you goin' to sleep comf'table with all your clothes on?  Might as well leave your shoes on, too, and hang yourself  up on a doorhook and sleep."

 

I got under the covers. No sir, ZR1Rand, I'm gonna git outa this house. Come on. Git dressed.

 

"Aw shucks," I said; "don't get excited, MoM. Let's be sensible and get some sleep.  Anyways, you just made me get undressed."

 

"Yeah, git everlasting sleep, may­be,' said MoM. "'Spose he come in at midnight and says `fee-fi-fo-fum' with a big club, and hammers us under them blankets."

 

"You're talking foolish," I says, "that old man is as peaceful as a lamb. He won't do no more harm to us than he would to a flea, MoM. He is a good old soul."

 

MoM stopped with one arm in a shirt sleeve and looked straight at me.

 

"Dern if I ever see such a fella as you, Hap Hazard," he says. "you got a way with you that makes a fella feel safe even when he knows he ain't. Now I bet you by 12 o'clock tonight you won't be able to ask me anything and I won't be able to answer you. We ain't gonna have no more interest in this world than a log-"

 

" Now I lay me down to sleep," I began out loud, as if I hadn't heard a word of what he was saying; "I pray the Lord-my Z to keep…"

 

And from there on I said my pray­ers quiet. I never forgot that part of my day's duty. No sir. My mother died when I was 9 years old. But she was with me long enough to teach me some good habits, which I still keep along with the bad ones I learned since she had to go away. And when I had got to the middle of that old-time prayer, I had ZR1MoM right beside me, with his bare knees on the hard floor.  I forgot to mention before, but ZR1MoM and my Mom have the same birthday, although a few years apart.  Now we know another reason to keep calling him MoM.

 

WE hopped into that rickety hundred-year-old bed, as if it had been a couch that a King slept on one time. Of course, it wasn't. Not even a King's stable boy had ever slept on it or anything like it. It was what you might call the limit. There was no limit to the springs, though. No. If the floor hadn't been there to hold you the springs never would. But what does such a little thing mean to a fella whose eyes have been hanging heavy for two nights, and has had a long ride that very day? Nothing. Not a single thing.

 

It felt good to be in bed. No mat­ter how rough or how hard. Just to rest. To lay still. Not to be mov­ing, that was it. We had been mov­ing so long and so dern fast most of the time that it was a pleasure to stay in one place for a while. Yet, even though our eyes were heavy with sleep, we did not sleep. First I thought maybe it was because I was a little nervous. Maybe I had eaten too much of the corn bread. I thought it was me who couldn't go to sleep. But when I whispered, ZR1MoM answered me and I knew he was wide awake, too.

 

"I told you so," he said, "you ain't gonna sleep in this house, Rand. 'Taint natural."

 

"'T'aint that," I said; "it's them two people moving around down stairs. Wonder why they don't go to bed and let us rest; I'm nervous from ridin' so much."

 

MoM sat up at once.

 

"Come on, let's get our duds on," he said; "I told you how it was; suppose something happened that we wouldn't be agreeable to. We'd have to git out in a hurry. And where you gonna go in a hurry without any clothes on?"

 

"No," I said, "You’re the one made me get undressed in the first place when I didn’t feel like it and I ain't goin' to be skeered into nothin , MoM. I'm gonna stay layin' right here, but I do hope them two will go to sleep soon and stop tramping around down on that bare old floor. Listen to them foot­steps, now. What's the old woman sayin' now?"

 

"I can't make her out," answered MoM; "she's grumblin' about some­thin'. She don't like it because the old man took us in, maybe. I know she was shushin’ up some mischief. I noticed that at the supper table. She called him an ‘old knock it off’."

"She did not," I said; she called

 

him Marc Randolf; that's his name." "The Randolfs and the Misleds," says MoM; "I bet you there's two kinds of people that'd make a fight look like a real war. And old Randolf thought you was a Misled, didn't he? He said so his­self, Rand. Don't argafy with me, now. I heard him."

Even as MoM spoke I thought I heard the old woman's voice below mention the name Misled. I wondered to myself if this could mean they really think MoM and me were trying to spy on them or to do something that the Misled crowd had sent us to do ?  No, I said to myself.  This cannot be. We're only boys. If there is a fight on between the Randolfs and the Misleds in this countryside, why would they think the Misled gang would send two young stranger boys?

 

"Shut up, MoM," I says, "you talk so dern much I can't hear a word they say down stairs."

 

"I knew it," said MoM, "you been thinking the same as me all the time, ZR1Randy. You know those two old cronies down stairs are hatchin' up something bad to do to us."

 

"Listen," I whispered.

 

I got out of bed without a sound, and in my bare feet I tiptoed over to the door and pulled it open slowly.

 

It sang anew tune on its rusty hinges. So I didn't pull it very far. The sound of the two voices, mixed with the footfalls of the old man, came up to us now clear and distinct. MoM sat straight up in bed as I re­turned from the door. His hair seemed to be standing straight up ­like wire.

 

"You hear that?" he whispered. "You hear that, Rand? Listen, now." And I listened. Yeah, I listened now, you bet your life I listened. For the words that came from below made my hair stand up as straight as MoM's, and I began to reach for my pants hanging on the foot of the bed.

 

"You got to do it," said the voice, of the woman from below; "you got to go right up now and do it, or you're not a real man."

 

"It ain't in me to do it, Carina," came the voice of Marc Randolf; "I ain't got the heart to do it, woman."

 

"Yer jes' natcherly chicken-hearted, that's what," came the woman's voice in a loud tone; you take that pistol right away and go and do as I say!  I taught you how to use it good enough even though you’ll never be as good as me."

 

"No," says Marc's voice, "I can't do it. May be I am chicken-­hearted.       But I can't do it; that's all."

 

Then there was silence for a few minutes. MoM and me could hear each other breathing, but we daren't say a word to each other, so fright­ened we were. What if the old man did what the old woman was telling him to do? What if he did take her pistol down off the hook where we saw it hanging - what if he did?

 

"It's yer one chanst," came the old woman's voice again. "Here ya got a chanst to do a deed that'll make yer mind a little easier the rest o' yer life, and you too chicken-hearted to take, my gun and shoot."

 

"Oh, Carina," says the old man's voice, "they been here jes' such a short while, it seems like a bloody deed to do it. I wisbt you wouldn't ax me to do that, woman. Let 'em live and grow up,"

 

"What good it'll do you?" asks the old woman. "What good-…"  I couldn't hear the rest of that sentence.

 

 I asked MoM in a whisper: "What did she say?  What did she ask him just then?"

 

"How do I know?" said MoM; "sounds like they are fixin’ to do us in like I told you before.  Listen here, ZR1Randy, if you don't git dressed and come along, I got to go by myself. This aint no place for us."

 

"You're right, I guess," says I, "it sounds pretty bad for us. I guess we got in wrong here, MoM. It would of been all right if I hadn't looked like a Misled. Hand me my pants will you? They's on your side there, by the foot. If you can't see 'em, feel around for 'em."

 

"'Taint natural," said MoM, as he fumbled over to me in the dark, and handed me my clothes. I hurried to put 'em on. "I told you, Rand, when I first seen the old geezer. He's a Randolf, she called it to him her­self; and he's got it in for the Misleds, and he thinks you're one of 'em and I guess he thinks I'm one of 'em, too.

 

 

 FORGET the Misleds," I said; "git into your clothes as quick as you can. He's most likely goin' for that pistol right now. And we here without a stick to fight back at him with."

 

"I ain't lookin' for no fightin'," says MoM, scrambling on the floor for his shoes. "I'm jist aiming to git out o' here quick as I can. An' I hope they ain't gone and busted my engine, so's we can't speed away. Most likely that's what they went and done."

"Lace your shoes and shut your mouth," I said; "I ain't aiming to git out o' here no fastern' you, but I want to git out when you do. You think that old LT5 engine will start quick?"  Well, I didn’t want to say anything and make you more scared, but there is a little problem that seems to come up at the worst times – the LT5 won’t start or even turn over or nothin’ and nobody knows why.” 

 

“OH Great!” I exclaimed.  “And you think that will happen now?”  “Could be.”  Says MoM.

 

"But I know the quick fix for 'er'; wait till I sit back o'the wheel, then you push the little ZR1 from the back as fast as you can.  It don’t take much to push the little thing and not much speed either, really, and I will pop the clutch and she will start right up every time - if there's gas left in the tank, and if the ignition key is on.  Don’t fret, I'll have her out o' this yard quicker'n we come in." "Lord help you do that," I says. "Watch out, Rand. They're comin'." Even before MoM spoke I heard it for myself. I heard the shuffling of the feet downstairs. I heard the foot­steps of the old man - you couldn't make a mistake about his heavy boots when they hit the floor-they come to the foot of the stairs and there they stopped as if he was a listening. Then, slowly, they come up the stairs, loud and solid. Thump­thump-thump-up came the boots, slow and steady.

 

"Good-by, ZR1Randy,' 'says MoM, "if I don't see you again - maybe I'll meet you in the next world."

 

"Maybe so," I said shaking like a leaf.

 

But I wasn't going to be done that­a-way without showing fight. No. My Daddy - even if he didn't act like he was interested in me much -he was always a good fighter and a brave man who taught me a few things. No­body can say anything about my dad to me. No. Because I saw him fight once. Yeah, and he fought like he wasn't afraid. Ever since the time I saw him fight I made up my mind that I had to do just like he did that morning when some fellow called him a bad name. Yeah, and he told me that my Grandpop wasn't any coward, either, and that's why, now, when I hear those boots coming up the stairs, I got up out of that old rickety bed and picked up the first thing I laid my hands on which happened to be an old table leg, the rest of the table to it being fallen to pieces on the floor; and I stood right behind the door, and told MoM to watch and tell me by a sign the minute old lanky Mister Randolf stepped up and I would let him have the table leg on his bean.

 

But, of course, as things will hap­pen, it didn't happen that way. Randolf didn't come inside. No. He stopped outside the door and peeked in. He couldn't see a thing, I know that. It was dark as pitch inside, but for the soft light that come up the stairway from below. Yet he looked at the bed, as if he saw us both sleeping in it. And he smiled, dern him, he smiled, as if he thought we were too tired out to know, and too sound asleep to hear. Yet I never will forget how frightened and how sore at him we were for making us so miserable.

 

I said he smiled. Well, he did. And me there waiting for him with a table leg in my fist, to give him a sock over the head the minute he tried to come in, or lift the pistol that he car­ried. He started moving, and I

thought sure the time had come for me to haul away with that table leg, but no. No. He turned and, with that same smile on his face, he went back down the stairs.

 

I heard the old lady's voice when he came down, and I knew she was there waiting for him.

 

"What's his game?" whispered MoM to me; "what's the idea, Ran?" "Search me," I answered, and I stood the table leg up in the corner behind the door; "I thought sure I'd have to bean him with that stick." "Lissen, where they going?" The outside door of the house was opening. Each door of this house had its own kind of a squeak. I remem­bered the outside door's tune. They had gone outside. After that we were in silence for 15 minutes. MoM didn't say a word to me. I didn't say a word to him. We sat there, each one of us on a side of the bed and lis­tened. We listened and listened. That's all we did.  Oh, yeah, and we shook a lot too.

 

Then came a sound. The sound of a shot. Then again-one more shot.  Maybe old Randolf had

gone outside to test his gun. Was he coming back now for us? "Good-night!" exclaimed MoM; I ain't goin' to stand this no longer, Rand. Here's where I git out while the gettin's good. Come on." "Yeah," I said, "let's go. Now, you ready?  Let's take that table leg for emergency."

 

MoM grabded the table leg and we started down the steps. We had no more than got to the middle of the stairs before the outside door opened and they come in, both of 'em, Randolf and Carina, and we turned right around and went back up without a sound. We reached the bed and sat down again.

 

"Well," said MoM, "I told you to go sooner. A few seconds less and we would have been free."

 

"Too late now," I says; "gimme that table leg."

 

He handed me the stick.

 

Then we sat down to wait some more. We waited. How long before they would come up and finish us? I wondered if we would get out of this if we went right down and tried to prove to them that we were not in cahoots with the Misleds; if we proved it to them that we were only two kids who were rolling around the world in a little old ZR1 automobile that should have run on better than an old country road.

 

 But MoM wasn't thinking about any "ifs" at all. I sometimes think maybe he was asleep all the time. He was so tired out, driv­ing the old Z these many days without a stop. I sometimes think this was all a nightmare. Maybe he was sleeping and I was sleeping, too. Anyway, I know this, that when I looked at him again he was sound asleep on the bed his arms spread out above his head, dead to the world, our poor old MoM was.

 

But I made up my mind that I would sit up and keep watch. MoM needed sleep. It was him who had to drive the car. He needed the rest.

 

I would watch and see that nobody disturbed him. But what's a fella going to do when he's just as tired as the other fella?

 

Yeah, the sun was streaming through the window when I woke up. I had slept. MoM was still sleep­ing. It was morning.  Fear had put us to sleep good.

"Git up. yo' lazy good-for-noth­ing's," sang out a voice from the door of our fine sleeping chamber, "and here is me, old Marc Randolf, waitin' on my breakfast these two hours, so's I won't hurt comp'ny's feelin's."

 

MoM sat up. Both of us turned to look at old Marc Randolf, as though we had been having a bad dream about him. We couldn't say a word. We were half dressed. All it took to be finished was to tie our shoe­strings, and there we were.

"Did you say breakfast, Mr. Nockitoff?" asked MoM.

 

"Randolf," I says to MoM. "Don't forget your manners. His name's Mister Randolf."

 

"Sure 'tis," said MoM, laughing, and I could see right away he was tickled to death to see it was morning again and he there to see it.

 

"Sure, Mister Randolf it is. Let's go and take a look at this breakfast, then."

 

"Only ham and aigs," says Mister Randolf, "but good enough for us common folks."

 

"Good enough for me," says MoM. I says for me, too. And so we went down to breakfast. Sure as I'm born, I thought I was still dreaming. I thought all those awful frights we had the night before were only dreams. I wanted to ask MoM if he remembered, but there weren't a chance now. We could talk it over when we were in the ZR1, on our way. So we ate "ham and aigs," as Mister Randolf says, and Carina brought in hot bis­cuits so fast we couldn't keep her busy, but we were glad it was break­fast time, and us two, boys there to help eat it. Never in my wanderings have I ever tasted breakfast so good as I had at the Randolfs’ down in God-­knows-where country. I wish I could find that place again. But, dern if we didn't lose track of it, having no map.

 

We hurried to our ZR1 machine after breakfast. We both were glad to get away from there. Old Randolf seemed sore that we were going. Old Carina seemed glad. Anyway, the old man had a grouchy look on his face, and the old lady looked happy.

"Wish. me good luck, ZR1Randy." says MoM, as he tries to start the engine.

 

"Good enough," I says, "let's get away from this here place quick as we can, MoM. And don't stop till I say when."

 

"Hol' on there, boys," called Mister Randolf, "hol' on there. Missus Randolf has a word to say to you 'fore yo' all go."

 

"Don't trust 'em, Ran," says MoM, as I held his arm back, "lemme put the gas to 'er and git out o' this-" "Hold on," I says, "the lady-"

 

Then steps up Carina, whose name I suspect is Missus Randolf in private life.

 

"This is for yo' all to remember us by," she says, "I wanted yo' all to know we was proud to have you stop at our house. Maybe yo' all kin sell it in town and git some money for it. I know you will be needin’ it.

 

I had a dickens of a time to make my of man loosen up and give it to yo'. Much luck to yo' all an' happy days."

 

She shoved a good-sized parcel, wrapped in brown paper, into the auto, through the door that lifts be­hind the seat.

 

"'Twarent that I was stingy," says old Marc Randolf, when he hears her talk. "'Twarent that, boys, but I jist didn't have the heart to kill 'em so young-".  Now we were scared again.

 

But by that time the LT5 had started. We flew out of the Randolf road, and, went sailing own that dusty pike. I turned my head in the first 3 seconds, as we went, at least a mile-a- minute, away from that night­mare house, and I saw those two old cronies waving their hands at us until a bend in the road hid their house from view.

 

"What the dickens did they mean, Rand?" asked MoM, as he kept his hand steady on the wheel and his eye on the road ahead - what's in the bundle "

 

I leaned back and tore the wrap­ping paper.

 

"Salted pork!" I says, "fresh killed and cleaned.  As poor as they are and they shared so much with us and worried we would be OK as we traveled."

 

MoM laughed.  “And we thought they was gonna kill and clean us but it was only the pigs.  Hahahaha!  They really are good ol’ ZR1-ers and I was so afraid of them.”  “Yeah,” I said, “Guess it goes to show you that you always have to give people the benefit of the doubt, no matter how strange they seem.  We will have to come back this way sometime and thank them for all they did for us.”

 

"Fine," he says; "write that down in our book, ZR1Randy." 

 

Which I did.