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Updated: June 25, 2025
And I'll stick in one of Hovey's stanzas, the one that goes: "There's a schooner in the offing With her topsails shot with fire. And my heart has gone aboard her For the Islands of Desire." "You can say," said the spokesman of the wanderers, "that this is Martin S. Stevers and party. I am Mr. Stevers of the Stevers Linseed Oil Company in San Francisco. Here's my card."
Well, without stretching the thing at all, and you can verify it from any of my party, we've averaged twenty-six miles an hour all the time out. I tell you the old boat had to travel some to do that." "Twenty-six miles," scribbled the newspaper man, adding after it, "The man's an idiot." Mr. Stevers, unmindful, loosened up. The price of gasoline. The price of breakfasts.
He was a heavy-set, large-faced man with expansive features almost devoid of expression. Suddenly his face lighted up. His hands jumped together and he rubbed their palms enthusiastically. "I see," he said with profundity. "I see." "Yes," breathed the newspaper man. "Well," said Mr. Stevers, "the first thing I'd like to tell you, young man, is about the car.
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