The real chauffeur knows every moment by the sound and "feel" of
his machine exactly what it is doing, the amount of gasoline it is
taking, whether the lubrication is perfect, the character and heat
of the spark, the condition of almost every screw, nut, and bolt,
and he runs his machine accordingly; at the first indication of
anything wrong he stops and takes the stitch in time that saves
ninety and nine later. The sham chauffeur sits at the wheel, and
in the security of ignorance runs gayly along until his machine is
a wreck; he may have hours, days, or even weeks of blind
enjoyment, but the end is inevitable, and the repairs costly; then
he blames every one but himself,--blames the maker for not making
a machine that may be operated by inexperience forever, blames the
men in his stable for what reason he knows not, blames the roads,
the country, everything and everybody--but himself.

It is amusing to hear the sham chauffeur talk. When things go
well, he does it; when they go wrong, it is the fault of some one
else; if he makes a successful run, the mechanic with him is a
nonentity; if he breaks down, the mechanic is his only resource.
It is more interesting to hear the mechanic--the real chauffeur
--talk when he is flat on his back making good the mistakes of his
master, but his conversation could not be printed _verbatim et
literatim_,--it is explosive and without a muffler.

The man who cannot run his machine a thousand miles without expert
assistance should make no pretense to being a chauffeur, for he is
not one. The chauffeur may use mechanics whenever he can find
them; but if he can't find them, he gets along just as well; and
when he does use them it is not for information and advice, but to