York. The Endurance Contest organized by the Automobile Club of
America had started for Buffalo on Monday morning, and the papers
each day contained long accounts of the heartbreaking times the
eighty-odd contestants were having,--hills, sand, mud, worked
havoc in the ranks of the faithful, and by midweek the automobile
stations in New York were crowded with sick and wounded veterans
returning from the fray.

The stories told by those who participated in that now famous run
possessed the charm of novelty, the absorbing fascination of
fiction.

Once upon a time, two fishermen, who were modestly relating
exploits, paused to listen to three chauffeurs who began
exchanging experiences. After listening a short time, the
fishermen, hats in hand, went over to the chauffeurs and said, "On
behalf of the Ancient and Honorable Order of Fishermen, which from
time immemorial has held the palm for large, generous, and
unrestricted stories of exploits, we confess the inadequacy of our
qualifications, the bald literalness of our narratives, the sober
and unadorned realism of our tales, and abdicate in favor of the
new and most promising Order of Chauffeurs; may the blessing of
Ananias rest upon you."

It is not that those who go down the pike in automobiles intend to
prevaricate, or even exaggerate, but the experience is so
extraordinary that the truth is inadequate for expression and
explanation. It seems quite impossible to so adjust our
perceptions as to receive strictly accurate impressions;
therefore, when one man says he went forty miles an hour, and
another says he went sixty, the latter assertion is based not upon
the exact speed,--for that neither knows,--but upon the belief of
the second man that he went much faster than the other. The exact
speeds were probably about ten and fifteen miles an hour
respectively; but the ratio is preserved in forty and sixty, and
the listening layman is deeply impressed, while no one who knows
anything about automobiling is for a moment deceived. At the same
time, in fairness to guests and strangers within the gates, each
club ought to post conspicuously the rate of discount on
narratives, for not only do clubs vary in their departures from
literal truth, but the narratives are greatly affected by seasons
and events; for instance, after the Endurance Contest the discount
rate in the Automobile Club of America was exceedingly high.

Every man who started finished ahead of the others,--except those
who never intended to finish at all. Each man went exactly as far
as he intended to go, and then took the train, road, or ditch
home. Some intended to go as far as Albany, others to Frankfort,
while quite a large number entered the contest for the express
purpose of getting off in the mud and walking to the nearest
village; a few, a very few, intended to go as far as Buffalo.

At one time or another each made a mile a minute, and a much
higher rate of speed would have been maintained throughout had it
not been necessary to identify certain towns in passing. Nothing
happened to any machine, but one or two required a little oiling,
and several were abandoned by the roadside because their occupants
had stubbornly determined to go no farther. One man who confessed
that a set-screw in his goggles worked loose was expelled from the
club as too matter-of-fact to be eligible for membership, and the
maker of the machine he used sent four-page communications to each
trade paper explaining that the loosening of the set-screw was due
to no defect in the machine, but was entirely the fault of the
driver, who jarred the screw loose by winking his eye.

Each machine surmounted Nelson Hill like a bird,--or would have,
if it had not been for the machine in front. There were those who
would have made the hill in forty-two seconds if they had not
wasted valuable time in pushing. The pitiful feat of the man who
crawled up at the rate of seventeen miles an hour was quite
discounted by the stories of those who would have made it in half
that time if their power had not oozed out in the first hundred
yards.

Then there was mud along the route, deep mud. According to
accounts, which were eloquently verified by the silence of all who
listened, the mud was hub deep everywhere, and in places the
machines were quite out of sight, burrowing like moles. Some took
to the tow-path along the canal, others to trolley lines and
telegraph wires.

Each man ran his own machine without the slightest expert
assistance; the men in over-alls with kits of tools lurking along
the roadside were modern brigands seeking opportunities for
hold-ups; now and then they would spring out upon an unoffending
machine, knock it into a state of insensibility, and abuse it most
unmercifully. A number of machines were shadowed throughout the
run by these rascals, and several did not escape their clutches,
but perished miserably. In one instance a babe in arms drove one
machine sixty-two miles an hour with one hand, the other being
occupied with a nursing-bottle.

There were one hundred and fifty-six dress-suit cases on the run,
but only one was used, and that to sit on during high tide in
Herkimer County, where the mud was deepest.

It would be quite superfluous to relate additional experience
tales, but enough has been told to illustrate the necessity of a
narrative discount notice in all places where the clans gather.
All men are liars, but some intend to lie,--to their credit, be it
said, chauffeurs are not among the latter.




CHAPTER SIXTEEN ANARCHISM
"BULLETINS FROM THE CHAMBER OF DEATH"

During these days the President was dying in Buffalo, though the
country did not know it until Friday.

Wednesday and Thursday the reports were so assuring that all
danger seemed past; but, as it turned out afterwards, there was
not a moment from the hour of the shooting when the fatal
processes of dissolution were not going on. Not only did the
resources of surgery and medicine fail most miserably, but their
gifted prophets were unable to foretell the end. Bulletins of the
most reassuring character turned out absolutely false. After it
was all over, there was a great deal of explanation how it
occurred and that it was inevitable from the beginning; but the
public did not, and does not, understand how the learned doctors
could have been so mistaken Wednesday and so wise Friday; and yet
the explanation is simple,--medicine is an art and surgery far
from an exact science. No one so well as the doctors knows how
impossible it is to predict anything with any degree of assurance;
how uncertain the outcome of simple troubles and wounds to say
nothing of serious; how much nature will do if left to herself,
how obstinate she often proves when all the skill of man is
brought to her assistance.

On Friday evening, and far into the night, Herald Square was
filled with a surging throng watching the bulletins from the
chamber of death. It was a dignified end. There must have been a
good deal of innate nobility in William McKinley. With all his
vacillation and infirmity of political purpose, he must have been
a man whose mind was saturated with fine thoughts, for to the very
last, in those hours of weakness when the will no longer sways and
each word is the half-unconscious muttering of the true self, he
shone forth with unexpected grandeur and died a hero.

Late in the evening a bulletin announced that when the message of
death came the bells would toll. In the midst of the night the
city was roused by the solemn pealing of great bells, and from the
streets below there came the sounds of flying horses, of moving
feet, of cries and voices. It seemed as if the city had been held
in check and was now released to express itself in its own
characteristic way. The wave of sound radiated from each newspaper
office and penetrated the most deserted street, the most secret
alley, telling the people of the death of their President.

Anarchy achieved its greatest crime in the murder of President
McKinley while he held the hand of his assassin in friendly grasp.

Little wonder this country was roused as never before, and at this
moment the civilized world is discussing measures for the
suppression, the obliteration, of anarchists, but we must take
heed lest we overshoot the mark.

Three Presidents--Lincoln, Garfield, and McKinley--have been
assassinated, but only the last as the result of anarchistic
teachings. The crime of Booth had nothing to do with anarchy; the
crime of half-witted Guiteau had nothing to do with anarchy; but
the deliberate crime of the cool and self-possessed Czolgoscz was
the direct outcome of the "propaganda of action."

Because, therefore, three Presidents have been assassinated, we
must not link the crimes together and unduly magnify the dangers
of anarchy. At most the two early crimes could only serve to
demonstrate how easy it is to reach and kill a President of the
United States, and therefore the necessity for greater safeguards
about his person is trebly demonstrated. The habit of handshaking,
at best, has little to recommend it; with public men it is a
custom without excuse. The notion that men in public life must
receive and mingle with great masses of people, or run the risk of
being called undemocratic, is a relic of the political dark ages.
The President of the United States is an executive official, not a
spectacle; he ought to be a very busy man, just a plain,
hard-working servant of the people,--that is the real democratic
idea. There is not the slightest need for him to expose himself to
assault. In the proper performance of his duties he ought to keep
somewhat aloof. The people have the right to expect that in their
interest he will take good care of himself.

As for anarchism, that is a political theory that possesses the
minds of a certain number of men, some of them entirely
inoffensive dreamers, and anarchism as a theory can no more be
suppressed by law than can any other political or religious
theory. The law is efficacious against acts, but powerless against
notions. But anarchism in the abstract is one thing and anarchism
in the concrete is another. It is one thing to preach anarchy as
the final outcome of progress, it is quite another thing to preach
anarchy as a present rule of conduct. The distinction must be
observed, for while the law is helpless against theories, it is
potent against the practical application of theories.

In a little book called "Politics for Young Americans," written
with most pious and orthodox intent by the late Charles Nordhoff,
the discussion of government begins with the epigram,--by no means
original with Nordhoff,--"Governments are necessary evils."

Therein lurks the germ of anarchism,--for if evil, why should
governments be necessary? The anarchist is quick to admit the
evil, but denies the necessity; and, in sooth, if government is an
evil, then the sooner it is dispensed with the better.

When Huxley defines anarchy as that "state of society in which the
rule of each individual by himself is the only government the
legitimacy of which is recognized," and then goes on to say, "in
this sense, strict anarchy may be the highest conceivable grade of
perfection of social existence; for, if all men spontaneously did
justice and loved mercy, it is plain that the swords might
advantageously be turned into ploughshares, and that the
occupation of judges and police would be gone," he lends support
to the theoretical anarchist. For if progress means the gradual
elimination of government and the final supremacy of the
individual, then the anarchist is simply the prophet who keeps in
view and preaches the end. If anarchy is an ideal condition, there
always will be idealists who will advocate it.

But government is necessary, and just because it is necessary
therefore it cannot be an evil. Hospitals are necessary, and just
because they are necessary therefore they cannot be evils. Places
for restraining the insane and criminal are necessary, and
therefore not evil.

The weaknesses of humanity may occasion these necessities; but the
evil, if any, is inherent in the constitution of man and not in
the social organization. It is the individual and not society that
has need of government, of hospitals, of asylums, of prisons.

Anarchy does not involve, as Huxley suggests, "the highest
conceivable grade of perfection of social existence." Not at all.
What it does involve is the highest conceivable grade of
individual existence; in fact, of a grade so high that it is quite
beyond conception,--in short, it involves human perfectibility.
Anarchy proper involves the complete emancipation of every
individual from all restraints and compulsions; it involves a
social condition wherein absolutely no authority is imposed upon
any individual, where no requirement of any kind is made against
the will of any member--man, woman, or child; where everything is
left to individual initiation.

So far from such a "state of society" being "the highest
conceivable grade of perfection of social existence," it is not
conceivable at all, and the farther the mind goes in attempting to
grasp it, the more hopelessly dreary does the scheme become.

When men spontaneously do justice and love mercy, as Huxley
suggests, and when each individual is mentally, physically, and
morally sound, as he must be to support and govern himself, then,
and not till then, will it be possible to dispense with
government; but even then it is more conceivable than otherwise
that these perfect individuals would--as a mere division of labor,
as a mere matter of economy--adopt and enforce some rules and
regulations for the benefit of all; it would be necessary to do so
unless the individuals were not only perfect, but also absolutely
of one mind on all subjects relating to their welfare. Can the
imagination picture existence more inane?

But regardless of what the mentally, physically, and morally
perfect individuals might do after attaining their perfection,
anarchy assumes the millennium,--and the millennium is yet a long
way off. If the future of anarchy depends upon the physical,
mental, and moral perfection of its advocates, the outlook is
gloomy indeed, for a theory never had a following more imperfect
in all these respects.

The patent fact that most governments, both national and local,
are corruptly, extravagantly, and badly administered tends to
obscure our judgment, so that we assent, without thinking, to the
proposition that government is an evil, and then argue that it is
a necessary evil. But government is not evil because there are
evils incidental to its administration. Every human institution
partakes of the frailties of the individual; it could not be
otherwise; all social institutions are human, not superhuman.

With progress it is to be hoped that there will be fewer wars,
fewer crimes, fewer wrongs, so that government will have less and
less to do and drop many of its functions,--that is the sort of
anarchy every one hopes for; that is the sort of anarchy the late
Phillips Brooks had in mind when he said, "He is the benefactor of
his race who makes it possible to have one law less. He is the
enemy of his kind who would lay upon the shoulders of arbitrary
government one burden which might be carried by the educated
conscience and character of the community."

But assume that war is no more and armies are disbanded; that
crimes are no more and police are dismissed; that wrongs are no
more and courts are dissolved,--what then?

My neighbor becomes slightly insane, is very noisy and
threatening; my wife and children, who are terrorized, wish him
restrained; but his friends do not admit that he is insane, or,
admitting his peculiarities, insist my family and I ought to put
up with them; the man himself is quite sane enough to appreciate
the discussion and object to any restraint. Now, who shall decide?
Suppose the entire community--save the man and one or two
sympathizing cranks--is clearly of the opinion the man is insane
and should be restrained, who is to decide the matter? and when it
is decided, who is to enforce the decision by imposing the
authority of the community upon the individual? If the community
asserts its authority in any manner or form, that is government.

If every institution, including government, were abolished
to-morrow, the percentage of births that would turn out blind,
crippled, and feeble both mentally and physically, wayward,
eccentric, and insane would continue practically the same, and the
community would be obliged to provide institutions for these
unfortunates, the community would be obliged to patrol the streets
for them, the community would be obliged to pass upon their
condition and support or restrain them; in short, the abolished
institutions--including tribunals of some kind, police, prisons,
asylums--would be promptly restored.

The anarchist would argue that all this may be done by voluntary
association and without compulsion; but the man arrested, or
confined in the insane asylum against his will, would be of a
contrary opinion. The debate might involve his friends and
sympathizers until in every close case--as now--the community
would be divided in hostile camps, one side urging release of the
accused, the other urging his detention. Who is to hold the scale
and decide?

The fundamental error of anarchists, and of most theorists who
discuss "government" and "the state," lies in the tacit assumption
that "government" and "the state" are entities to be dealt with
quite apart from the individual; that both may be modified or
abolished by laws or resolutions to that effect.

If anything is clearly demonstrated as true, it is that both
"government" and "the state" have been evolved out of our own
necessities; neither was imposed from without, but both have been
evolved from within; both are forms of co-operation. For the time
being the "state" and "government," as well as the "church" and
all human institutions, may be modified or seemingly abolished,
but they come back to serve essentially the same purpose. The
French Revolution was an organized attempt to overturn the
foundations of society and hasten progress by moving the hands of
the clock forward a few centuries,--the net result was a despotism
the like of which the world has not known since the days of Rome.

Anarchy as a system is a bubble, the iridescent hues of which
attract, but which vanish into thin air on the slightest contact
with reality; it is the perpetual motion of sociology; the fourth
dimension of economies; the squaring of the political circle.

The apostles of anarchy are a queer lot,--Godwin in England,
Proudhon, Grave, and Saurin in France, Schmidt ("Stirner"),
Faucher, Hess, and Marr in Germany, Bakunin and Krapotkin in
Russia, Reclus in Belgium, with Most and Tucker in America, sum up
the principal lights,--with the exception of the geographer
Reclus, not a sound and sane man among them; in fact, scarcely any
two agree upon a single proposition save the broad generalization
that government is an evil which must be eliminated. Until they do
agree upon some one measure or proposition of practical
importance, the world has little to fear from their discussions
and there is no reason why any attempt should be made to suppress
the debate. If government is an evil, as so many men who are not
anarchists keep repeating, then the sooner we know it and find the
remedy the better; but if government is simply one of many human
institutions developed logically and inevitably to meet conditions
created by individual shortcomings, then government will tend to
diminish as we correct our own failings, but that it will entirely
disappear is hardly likely, since it is inconceivable that men on
this earth should ever attain such a condition of perfection that
possibility of disagreement is absolutely and forever removed.

Anarchism as a doctrine, as a theory, involves no act of violence
any more than communism or socialism.

Between the assassination of a ruler and the doctrine of anarchy
there is no necessary connection. The philosophic anarchist simply
believes anarchy is to be the final result of progress and
evolution, just as the communist believes that communism will be
the outcome; neither theorist would see the slightest advantage in
trying to hasten the slow but sure progress of events by deeds of
violence; in fact, both theorists would regret such deeds as
certain to prove reactionary and retard the march of events.

The world has nothing to fear from anarchism as a theory, and up
to thirty or forty years ago it was nothing but a theory.

The "propaganda of action" came out of Russia about forty years
ago, and is the offspring of Russian nihilism.

The "propaganda of action" is the protest of impatience against
evolution; it is the effort to hasten progress by deeds of
violence.

From the few who, like Bakunin, Brousse, and Krapotkin, have
written about the "propaganda of action" with sufficient coherence
to make themselves understood, it appears that it is not their
hope to destroy government by removing all executive heads,--even
their tortured brains recognize the impossibility of that task;
nor do they hope to so far terrify rulers as to bring about their
abdication. Not at all; but they do hope by deeds of violence to
so attract attention to the theory of anarchy as to win
followers;--in other words, murders such as those of Humbert,
Carnot, and President McKinley were mere advertisements of
anarchism. In the words of Brousse, "Deeds are talked of on all
sides; the indifferent masses inquire about their origin, and thus
pay attention to the new doctrine and discuss it. Let men once get
as far as this, and it is not hard to win over many of them."

Hence, the greater the crime the greater the advertisement; from
that point of view, the shooting of President McKinley, under
circumstances so atrocious, is so far the greatest achievement of
the "propaganda of action."

It is worth noting that the "reign of terror" which the Nihilists
sought to and did create in Russia was for a far more practical
and immediate purpose. They sought to terrify the government into
granting reforms; so far from seeking to annihilate the
government, they sought to spur it into activity for the benefit
of the masses.

The methods of the Nihilists, without the excuse of their object,
were borrowed by the more fanatical anarchists, and applied to the
advertising of their belief. Since the adoption of the "propaganda
of action" by the extremists, anarchism has undergone a great
change. It has passed from a visionary and harmless theory, as
advocated by Godwin, Proudhon, and Reclus, to a very concrete
agency of crime and destruction under the teachings of such as
Bakunin, Krapotkin, and Most; not forgetting certain women like
Louise Michel in France and Emma Goldman in this country who out-
Herod Herod;--when a woman goes to the devil she frightens him;
his Satanic majesty welcomes a man, but dreads a woman; to a woman
the downward path is a toboggan slide, to a man it is a gentle but
seductive descent.

It is against the "propaganda of action" that legislation must be
directed, not because it is any part of anarchism, but because it
is the propaganda of crime.

Laws directed towards the suppression of anarchism might result in
more harm than good, but crime is quite another matter. It is one
thing to advocate less and less of government, to preach the final
disappearance of government and the evolution of anarchy; it is a
fundamentally different thing to advocate the destruction of life
or property as a means to hasten the end.

The criminal action and the criminal advice must be dissociated
entirely from any political or social theory. It does not matter
what a man's ultimate purpose may be; he may be a communist or a
socialist, a Republican or a Democrat, a Presbyterian or an
Episcopalian; when he advises, commits, or condones a murder, his
conduct is not measured by his convictions,--unless, of course, he
is insane; his advice is measured by its probable and actual
consequences; his deeds speak for themselves.

A man is not to be punished or silenced for saying he believes in
anarchy, his convictions on that point are a matter of
indifference to those who believe otherwise. But a man is to be
punished for saying or doing things which result in injuring
others; and the advice, whether given in person to the individual
who commits the deed, or given generally in lecture or print, if
it moves the individual to action, is equally criminal.

On August 20, 1886, eight men were found guilty of murder in
Chicago, seven were condemned to death and one to the
penitentiary; four were afterwards hanged, one killed himself in
jail, and three were imprisoned.

These men were convicted of a crime with which, so far as the
evidence showed, they had no direct connection; but their
speeches, writings, and conduct prior to the actual commission of
the crime had been such that they were held guilty of having
incited the murder.

During the spring of 1886 there were many strikes and a great deal
of excitement growing out of the "eight-hour movement in Chicago."
There was much disorder. On the evening of May 4 a meeting was
held in what was known as Haymarket Square, at this meeting three
of the condemned made speeches. About ten o'clock a platoon of
police marched to the Square, halted a short distance from the
wagon where the speakers were, and an officer commanded the
meeting to immediately and peaceably disperse. Thereupon a bomb
was thrown from near the wagon into the ranks of the policemen,
where it exploded, killing and wounding a number.

The man who threw the bomb was never positively identified, but it
was probably one Rudolph Schnaubelt, who disappeared. At all
events, the condemned were not connected with the actual throwing;
they were convicted upon the theory that they were co-conspirators
with him by reason of their speeches, writings, and conduct which
influenced his conduct.

An even broader doctrine of liability is announced in the
following paragraph from the opinion of the Supreme Court of
Illinois:

"If the defendants, as a means of bringing about the social
revolution and as a part of the larger conspiracy to effect such
revolution, also conspired to excite classes of workingmen in
Chicago into sedition, tumult, and riot, and to the use of deadly
weapons and the taking of human life, and for the purpose of
producing such tumult, riot, use of weapons and taking of life,
advised and encouraged such classes by newspaper articles and
speeches to murder the authorities of the city, and a murder of a
policeman resulted from such advice and encouragement, then
defendants are responsible therefor."

It is the logical application of this proposition that will defeat
the "propaganda of action." If it be enacted that any man who
advocates the commission of any criminal act, or who afterwards
condones the crime, shall be deemed guilty of an offence equal to
that advocated or condoned and punished accordingly, the
"propaganda of action" in all branches of criminal endeavor will
be effectually stifled without the doubtful expedient of directing
legislation against any particular social or economic theory.




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN NEW YORK TO BUFFALO
UP THE HILL

It was Saturday, the 14th, at nine o'clock, when we left New York
for Albany, following the route of the Endurance Contest.

The morning was bright and warm. The roads were perfect for miles.
We passed Kings Bridge, Yonkers, Hastings, and Dobbs Ferry flying.
At Tarrytown we dropped the chain. A link had parted. Pushing the
machine under the shade of a tree, a half-hour was spent in
replacing the chain and riveting in a new link. All the pins
showed more or less wear, and a new chain should have been put on
in New York, but none that would fit was to be had.

We dined at Peekskill, and had a machinist go over the chain,
riveting the heads of the pins so none would come out again.

Nelson Hill, a mile and a half beyond Peekskill, proved all it was
said to be,--and more.

In the course of the trip we had mounted hills that were worse,
and hills that were steeper, but only in spots or for short
distances; for a steady steep climb Nelson Hill surpassed anything
we found in the entire trip. The hill seems one-half to
three-quarters of a mile long, a sharp ascent,--somewhat steeper
about half-way up than at the beginning or finish. Accurate
measurements were made for the Endurance Contest and the results
published.

The grade was just a little too much for the machine, with our
luggage and ourselves. It was tiresome walking so far beside the
machine, and in attempting to bring it to a stop for a moment's
rest the machine got started backward, and was well on its way
down the hill, gaining speed every fraction of a second. It was a
short, sharp chase to catch the lever operating the emergency
brake,--which luckily operated by being pushed forward from the
seat,--a pull on the lever and the machine was brought to a stop
with the rear wheels hanging over the edge of a gulley** at the
side. After that experience the machine was allowed to go to the
top without any more attempts to rest.

At Fishkill Village we saved a few miles and some bad road by
continuing on to Poughkeepsie by the inland road instead of going
down to the Landing.

We inquired the way from an old man, who said, "If you want to go
to P'keepsie, follow the road just this side the post-office; you
will save a good many miles, and have a good road; if you want to
follow the other fellers, then keep straight on down to the
Landing; but why they went down there, beats me."

It was six-thirty when we arrived at Poughkeepsie. As the next day
would be Sunday, we made sure of a supply of gasoline that night.

Up to this point the roads, barring Nelson Hill, and the weather
had been perfect, but conditions were about to change for the
worse.

Sunday morning was gray and drizzly. We left at eight-thirty. The
roads were soft and in places very slippery; becoming much worse
as we approached Albany, where we arrived at half-past three.
There we should have stopped. We had come seventy-five miles in
seven hours, including all stops, over bad roads, and that should
have sufficed; but it was such an effort to house the machine in
Albany and get settled in rooms, that we decided to go on at least
as far as Schenectady.

To the park it was all plain sailing on asphalt and macadam, but
from the park to the gate of the cemetery and to the turn beyond
the mud was so deep and sticky it seemed as if the machine could
not possibly get through. If we had attempted to turn about, we
would surely have been stuck; there was nothing to do but follow
the best ruts and go straight on, hoping for better things. The
dread of coming to a standstill and being obliged to get out in
that eight or ten inches of uninviting mud was a very appreciable
factor in our discomfort. Fortunately, the clutch held well and
the motor was not stalled. When we passed the corner beyond the
cemetery the road was much better, though still so soft the high
speed could be used only occasionally.

The tank showed a leak, which for some reason increased so rapidly
that a pail of water had to be added about every half-mile. At
last a pint of bran poured into the tank closed the leak in five
minutes.

On reaching Latham it was apparent that Schenectady could not be
made before dark, if at all, so we turned to the right into Troy.
We had made the two long sides of a triangle over the worst of
roads; whereas, had we run from Albany direct to Troy, we could
have followed a good road all the way.

The next morning was the 16th of September, the sun was shining
brightly and the wind was fresh; the roads were drying every
moment, so we did not hurry our departure.

The express office in Albany was telephoned for a new chain that
had been ordered, and in about an hour it was delivered. The
machine was driven into a side street in front of a metal roofing
factory, the tank taken out and so thoroughly repaired it gave no
further trouble. It was noon before the work was finished, for the
new chain and a new belt to the pump had to be put on, and many
little things done which consumed time.

At two o'clock we left Troy. The road to Schenectady in good
weather is quite good, but after the rain it was heavy with
half-dried mud and deep with ruts. From Schenectady to Fonda,
where we arrived at six-thirty, the roads were very bad; however,
forty-five miles in four hours and a half was fairly good travelling
under the adverse conditions. If the machine had been equipped with
an intermediate gear, an average of twelve or fifteen miles could
have been easily made. The going was just a little too heavy for the
fast speed and altogether too easy for the low, and yet we were
obliged to travel for hours on the low gear.

From New York to Buffalo there is a succession of cities and
villages which are, for the most part, very attractive, but good
hotels are scarce, and as for wayside inns there are none. With
the exception of Albany and one or two other cities the hotels are
old, dingy, and dirty. Here and there, as in Geneva, a new hotel
is found, but to most of the cities the hotels are a disgrace.

The automobile, however, accustoms one to discomforts, and one
gets so tired and hungry at night that the shortcomings of the
village hotel are overlooked, or not fully realized until seen the
next morning by the frank light of day.

Fonda is the occasion of these remarks upon New York hotels.

It was cloudy and threatening when we left Fonda at half-past
seven the next morning, and by ten the rain began to fall so
heavily and steadily that the roads, none too dry before, were
soon afloat.

It was slow going. At St. Johnsville we stopped to buy heavier
rubber coats. It did not seem possible we would get through the
day without coming to a stop, but, strange to relate, the machine
kept on doggedly all day, on the slow gear nearly every mile,
without a break of any kind.

It was bad enough from St. Johnsville to Herkimer, but the worst
was then to come.

When we came east from Utica to Herkimer, we followed the road on
the north side of the valley, and recalled it as hilly but very
dry and good. The Endurance Contest was out of Herkimer, through
Frankfort and along the canal on the south side of the valley. It
was a question whether to follow the road we knew was pretty good
or follow the contest route, which presumably was selected as the
better.

A liveryman at Herkimer said, "Take my advice and keep on the
north side of the valley; the road is hilly, but sandy and drier;
if you go through Frankfort, you will find some pretty fierce
going; the road is level but cut up and deep with mud,--keep on
the north side."

We should have followed that advice, the more so since it
coincided with our own impressions; but at the store where we
stopped for gasoline, a man who said he drove an automobile
advised the road through Frankfort as the better.

It was in Frankfort that several of the contestants in the
endurance run came to grief,--right on the main street of the
village. There was no sign of pavement, macadam, or gravel, just
deep, dark, rich muck; how deep no one could tell; a road so bad
it spoke volumes for the shiftlessness and lack of enterprise
prevailing in the village.

A little beyond Frankfort there is about a mile of State road,
laid evidently to furnish inhabitants an object lesson,--and laid
in vain.

A little farther on the black muck road leads between the canal
and towpath high up on the left, and a high board fence protecting
the railroad tracks on the right; in other words, the highway was
the low ground between two elevations. The rains of the week
before and the rains of the last two days had converted the road
into a vast ditch. We made our way slowly into it, and then
seizing an opening ran up on to the towpath, which was of sticky
clay and bad enough, but not quite so discouraging as the road. We
felt our way along carefully, for the machine threatened every
moment to slide either into the canal on the left or down the bank
into the road on the right.

Soon we were obliged to turn back to the road and take our chances
on a long steady pull on the slow gear. Again and again it seemed
as if the motor would stop; several times it was necessary to
throw out the clutch, let the motor race, and then throw in the
clutch to get the benefit of both the motor and the momentum of
the two-hundred pound fly-wheel; it was a strain on the chain and