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."
"Scoundrel. That was right after Slim Lemke Stone died and- What in the
world is that racket?"
"That's an automobile." I glanced around for the source of the noise.
Starting about 2150 or a little earlier (I saw my first one the year I
signed up) supreme swank for an Iowa fanner was to own and drive a working
replica of a twentieth-century "automobile" personal transport vehicle. Of
course not a vehicle moved by means of internal explosions of a derivative of
rock oil: Even the People's Republic of South Africa had laws against placing
poisons in the air. But with its Shipstone concealed and a sound tape to supply
the noise of a soi-disant "1C' engine, the difference between a working replica
and a real "automobile" was not readily apparent.
This one was the swankest of all replicas, a Tin Lizzy, a "Ford touring
car. Model T, 1914." It was as dignified as Queen Victoria, whom it resembled.
And it was Uncle Jock's... as I had suspected when I heard that infernal
banging.
I said to Hazel, "Here, you take Pixel and soothe him; he's certainly never
heard anything like this. And ease well off to the side of the road; these
wagons are erratic." We continued on down the road; the replica pulled alongside
us and stopped.
"Need a lift, folks?" Uncle Jock asked. Up close the racket was horrible.
I turned and grinned at him, and answered, mouthing my words so that they
couldn't possibly be heard above the noise:
"Four score and seven years ago did gyre and gimble in the wabe
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