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Three Harvard men were meandering through the Berkshires in a Chevrolet coupe one bright Sunday morning last month. They had been driving all night, and the three were huddled together in that slouchy "morning after the night before" fashion when suddenly the snooping nose of a new black Ford loomed into the mirror above the windshield. Now all Chevrolet owners know what that meant. It was just like waving a red flag before a bull. The driver's hot sporting blood surged up his spine; he awakened from his spell of dull lethargy and gave the accelerator a little push. "The gap between them widened slightly and then filled up again. The Ford again showed signs of passing him, but the game Chevrolet driver depressed his accelerator a bit more and drew away. And so the informal race continued, the Chevrolet playing with the Ford in much the same way that a fisherman casts for small-mouthed Bass-giving him plenty of slack and then drawing him in.
Now, the road through the Berkshires is none too straight, in fact, it's very winding, and after the fifth depression of the accelerator rubber began to shrick on every curve. "This fellows's a fool," barked the driver of the Chevrolet, "he doesn't know when he's had enough." Suddenly the Ford began a Bedlam of horn-honking. It threw such an unchivalrous and vulgar element into the race that the Chevrolet driver immediately became so vexed that, together with a few bitter remarks, he stuck his arm out the window and rudely motioned for the Ford to pass. And pass he did. But alas! it was no gentleman driving the Ford. On the contrary, it was a blue-uniformed, silver-buckled servant of Massachusetts, a man with positively no sense of chivalry. He was not interested in an honorable victory but insisted upon a humiliating defeat, and ordered the Chevrolet to the curb.
There ought to be a law against playing on the emotions of Chevrolet and Ford owners for exploitation.
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