As drivers will, she tried to exorcise the creeping fear by singing. She
made up what she called her driving-song. It was intended to echo the
hoofs of a fat old horse on a hard road: The old horse trots with a jog, jog, jog,
And a jog, jog, jog; and a jog, jog, jog.
And the old road makes a little jog, jog, jog,
To the west, jog, jog; and the north, jog, jog.
While the farmer drinks some cider from his jug, jug, jug,
From his coy jug, jug; from his joy jug, jug.
Till he accumulates a little jag, jag, jag,
And he jigs, jigs, jigs, with his jug, jug, jug---The song was a comfort, at first--then a torment. She drove to it, and
she steered to it, and when she tried to forget, it sang itself in her
tired brain: "Jog, jog, jog--oh, damn!"
Her father had had a chill. Miserable, weak as a small boy, he had
curled up on the bottom of the car, his head on the seat, and gone to
sleep. She was alone. The mile-posts went by slowly. The posts said
there was a town ahead called Pellago, but it never came---And when it did come she was too tired to care. In a thick dream she
drove through midnight streets of the town. In stupid paralysis she
kicked at the door of the galvanized-iron-covered garage. No answer. She
gave it up. She drove down the street and into the yard of a hotel
marked by a swing sign out over the plank sidewalk. She got out the
traveling bags, awakened her father, led him up on the porch.
The Pellago Tavern was a transformed dwelling house. The pillars of the
porch were aslant, and the rain-warped boards snapped beneath her feet.
She hesitatingly opened the door. The hallway was dark and musty. A
sound like a moan filtered down the unlighted stairs.
There seemed to be light in the room on the right. Trying to assure
herself that her father was a protection, she pushed open the door. She
looked into an airless room, scattered with rubber boots, unsavory old
corduroy caps, tattered magazines. By the stove nodded a wry-mouthed,
squat old woman, and a tall, cheaply handsome man of forty. Tobacco
juice stained the front of his stiff-bosomed, collarless shirt. His
hands were white but huge.
The old woman started. "Well?"
"I want to get two rooms for the night, please."
The man smirked at her. The woman creaked, "Well, I don't know. Where d'
you come from, heh?"
"We're motoring through."
"Heh? Who's that man?"
"He's my father, madam."
"Needn't to be so hoity-toity about it, 'he's my father, madam!' F' that
matter, that thing there is my husband!"