A small boy pointed out a long tin horn hanging on a post, the hoarse blast of which summons the sleepy boat.
There was no landing, and it seemed impossible for our vehicle to get aboard; but the boat had a long shovel-like nose projecting from the bow which ran upon the shore, making a perfect gang-plank.
Carefully balancing the automobile in the centre so as not to list the primitive craft, we made our way deliberately to the other side, the entire crew of two men--engineer and captain--coming out to talk with us.
The ferries at Lyme and New London would prove great obstacles to anything like a club from New York to Newport along this road; the day would be spent in getting machines across the two rivers.
It was dark when we ran into the city.

This particular visit to New Haven is chiefly memorable for the exceeding good manners of a boy of ten, who watched the machine next morning as it was prepared for the day's ride, offered to act as guide to the place where gasoline was kept, and, with the grace of a Chesterfield, made good my delinquent purse by paying the bill.

It was all charmingly and not precociously done.

This little man was well brought up,--so well brought up that he did not know it.
The automobile is a pretty fair touchstone to manners for both young and old.

A man is himself in the presence of the unexpected.
The automobile is so strange that it carries people off their equilibrium, and they say and do things impulsively, and therefore naturally.
The odd-looking stranger is ever treated with scant courtesy and unbecoming curiosity; the strange machine fares no better.