The Gnomemobile. Upton Sinclair
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houses that I see running by so fast? What is it that makes it go?”
“It is the engine,” said Elizabeth. “Rodney will explain it to you better than I can. He has one of his own, and will bring me in it. I must go now, or Mama will think that I am lost. She is calling.”
Voices were heard in the distance; and Elizabeth put her two hands to her mouth and gave a loud “Yoo-hoo—” a sound which caused the little man to put his fingers in his ears. “My, what a terrifying voice you have!”
“I will use it to call you,” replied the girl. “You have not told me what name I shall call.”
“My name is Bobo.”
“Bobo and Glogo. What pretty names! Mine is Elizabeth.”
“That is a long name,” said Bobo, and repeated it slowly. “I will learn to say it before you come back. You will surely come?”
“I’ll come,” called Elizabeth, already running toward the sounds. “Good-by, Bobo!”
The little round face disappeared behind the greenery, and Elizabeth hurried as fast as she could to where the two anxious ladies were waiting. “Oh,” cried Mama, “you have ruined your shoes!” And she added: “Don’t you know there are rattlesnakes in those woods?” Miss Jellife said: “You might have had a glass of soda inside a tree.”
“I am going to learn to drink honeydew inside a flower,” replied Elizabeth.
Mama sighed, as they were getting into the car: “This child is so imaginative!”
CHAPTER TWO
In Which Rodney Meets Bobo
“Old Man Sinsabow” was known as one of the lumber kings of the Northwest. He lived in a big palace that he had built out of his own lumber: a palace in the style of our ancestors, with bow windows and gables and turrets and towers, showing everything that could be done with lumber. In that palace he had raised a large family and sent it out into the world. Now he was seventy, and his daughters were all married, and two of his sons ran the lumber business, and another ran the family bank, and another the shipping line. They were all worthy of the name of Sinsabow except the last, whose name was Rodney—he did not especially care for lumber.
Rodney belonged to a new generation, which does not permit itself to care about anything too much. He made funny remarks about things, and about people, including his own family; remarks which somehow made them feel less important—and quite often people do not like that. Old man Sinsabow, who was tougher than the others, would smile grimly now and then. There was nothing about his youngest son that he had any special reason to find fault with; Rodney did not get drunk, or get into the newspapers; he just liked to read books, and try to write poetry. The old man thought he could afford to have one son who was different, and if Rodney wanted to be a poet, he would buy some newspapers or magazines for him to print his poetry in.
Meanwhile Rodney had an allowance, and continued to lounge in his den and read books, and make remarks about the lumber business. When he took a friend out driving, he would look at the hills with all the trees cut off, wave his hand and say: “Our northeast turret came from over there.” He would say: “That is my brother Archie’s yacht”—and the visitor might be puzzled by the idea of a yacht on a mountainside. If Rodney saw, in some distant glen, a stand of timber which had not yet been cut, he would say: “That’s my next year’s allowance.”
To this queer uncle came Elizabeth on the evening of her arrival. She tapped on the door and politely asked if she might come in, and seated herself in an armchair much too big for her, and said: “Rodney, have you ever seen the redwoods? I saw them today for the first time; and I didn’t see enough of them, because Mama and Miss Jellife were in a hurry. Will you do me a great favor?”
“What?”
“I want to go and see the big trees again. And I’ll tell you a secret—at least part of one. I saw something in the forest—I don’t want to say what it is, because you couldn’t believe me; I just want you to believe that it’s something unusual and surprising, and it will make you glad you came.”
“In other words,” said Rodney, with a smile, “my little niece wants to have a picnic.”
“With just you and me, please. Anybody else would spoil it all.”
“And when do you want to go?”
“Tomorrow, if you can arrange it. Mama says it’s all right, if you won’t drive too fast.”
So Rodney took up the telephone, and told the butler that he wanted a thermos bottle full of ice-cold lemonade for Elizabeth and one of hot coffee for himself, and a box of sandwiches and fruit for two, and his car at the door at eight o’clock. Elizabeth was grateful, and ever so mysterious.
Next morning they set out on a long drive—but not so long in time, because there were no traffic officers on these hundreds of miles of highway. Rodney had a special kind of car, and knew how to drive it specially well, and he took it for granted that the highways, like everything else, were made for the Sinsabow family.
At noon the next day they came to the place where Mama’s car had stopped; they parked, and Elizabeth took charge of affairs. She carried the rug to sit on, and Rodney took the basket of lunch, and they went from tree to tree, as Elizabeth remembered her walk of the previous day. They came to the big rock with the fringe of ferns; and there they stopped, and Elizabeth, with her heart in her mouth, gave a faint little call: “Bobo!” and then a somewhat louder one: “Oh, Bobo!”
Straightway came a shrill little pipe, one syllable at a time, as if the piper were trying to get the name just right: “E-liz-a-beth.” Rodney looked startled, and they both peered here and there to see where the sounds came from. The little voice laughed gleefully, thinking it was fun that these big creatures could not see him. In front of them was an old redwood stump, with dozens of little trees starting out from it; and peering between the branches, Elizabeth made out the little round face with the rosy-red cheeks and the little brown peaked cap on top. “Hello, Bobo!” she cried; and then: “This is Rodney. Rodney, let me present my friend Bobo.”
“Well, well!” said Rodney; and then again, being at a loss: “Well, well!”
“I didn’t tell Rodney about you, Bobo,” explained the girl. “I thought he might be afraid of you.” And she added: “You see, he is just as nice as I promised.”
Bobo pushed out through the fringe of branches, took a seat on the edge of the stump, and surveyed his new visitor. He saw a young man with fair hair and sunburned features, a slightly turned-up nose, and a funny expression which made wrinkles around his eyes.
“Really,” said the young man, “this is most interesting. I am ever so glad to make your acquaintance.”
“I knew you would be, Rodney. You see, Bobo is a gnome, and has lived in this forest for a hundred years.”
“A gnome! Well, I have read about them, of course, but it is the first time I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting one. May I ask, Mr. Bobo, is it the custom of your people to shake hands when you are introduced?”
“I was never introduced before,” replied Bobo.
“I do not know how the custom of shaking hands started,” said Rodney, the philosopher. “It must have been many thousands of years ago, and I suppose men put out their right hands to each other to show that they had no weapons, and did not mean any harm. May I show you how we do it?”
Rodney took the tiny hand very gently in his, and moved it up and down once or twice. Bobo was exactly fourteen and a quarter inches high, and when he was well fed and happy he weighed eleven pounds and fourteen ounces. It was a strange thing to touch that delicate little hand.
“Bobo had never talked with a big person till he met me,” explained Elizabeth. “He lives in this forest all alone with his grandfather. They do not know what has become of the rest of their people. They have