On the road again

Something like this? I'd miss lunch too!

Not too bad. On Thursday morning, Lewis had looked down a road that wound 700 miles from Columbia, Missouri to Cottonwood, Texas. Now, a mere 48 hours later, he woke in a clean bed freshly bathed and shaved from the night before, his tummy still full from last night's steak dinner. He always would relish the memory of the ride across Oklahoma in his new (and to us nameless) friend's swanky Reo. At six o'clock his host called him down to a breakfast so good that Lewis lists the menu: "grape-fruit, toast, coffee, fruit." And not just breakfast, but the offer of a loan. Lewis must have made a good impression--I can vouch that the conversation had been fascinating; Lewis didn't have any other kind.

West to Amarillo

South to Cottonwood

Now he had a mere 250 miles to knock off before he arrived to home and family in Cottonwood.  Dapper in his second shirt, he hopped on a streetcar and the journey began again. I wonder now if he didn't give a passing thought on taking a streetcar over to Route 66 and heading straight west to Amarillo and Dottie. Only a few miles further, she should be there by now, and . . .
If he did entertain such thoughts, he put them straight away and headed out for Norman where he mailed Dottie a card. Then, he says, bad luck hit again. When he finally caught a ride, he bounced along in a truck loaded with "ten tons of gasoline and oil." Not so bad until they crossed the Canadian River on a half-mile long bridge that began to "snap and groan. The driver turned pale and told me he was afraid we were going thru." They made it. They stopped for lunch and the driver paid. Lewis didn't understand why. I think I do.
After a quick ride to Ardmore, Lewis was stuck with a long wait. Naturally, he grabbed the first ride that came along, and launched onto the biggest adventure of the trip.

"Finally a T Model Ford truck stopped. It was full of people, but an old man (who seemed to be boss) in the back of the truck told me they were going all the way to the Red River (eight miles from Gainesville). So in I crawled, and we bounced down the road at about thirty per.

It's no Reo, and wasn't as clean or as empty

      The old man in back was nutty, and I hinted to him that I was "Pretty boy" Floyd. When we got within four miles of the river, we came face to face with a detour sign. The old man decided he would follow the pavement, despite the fact that the sign indicated the other road. So he told the driver to shove [? Maybe move?] it down the closed road.

      'I'll get off here,' I sez. But the car started.

      'You can ride on to th' river,' sez the old man.

      'But I want to stay on the highway.' I answered. 'Stop him.'

      'Oh, the devil,'sez the old man, a young buck like you 'orghtn' to mind a little walk. It's good for you.'

      'Stop him,' sez I, picking up a tire tool, or I'll knock you in the head.'

      He blinked.

'Stop him,' I said.

He did.

I got out.

'Think you're smart don't you?' sez the old man.

'Shut up,' sez I, turning toward the highway."
 

And on that cliff hanging note—to be continued!