TITLE PAGE     GERMAN    

THE CAR DUMP

When Frank and Florian finally reached Klepprit Street after a long search only to find that it consisted of mere billboards, storage yards and barns, they were astonished to think that a millionaire should be residing there. Frank was beginning to susspect that the stars must have been pulling his leg and was about to make off again with Florian when a fat tramp emerged out of a cart with a big yawn. His face seemed quite familiar to our two friends. "Does Mr. Sam Brankwyn, the millionaire, live here?" Frank inquired of the beggar. - "Yes, indeed he does; at least the first gentleman you mentioned does; the second, however, abandoned him a long time ago and lives heaven knows where!" And then the fat man - who was none other than Mr. Sam Brankwyn himself - told the story of how he had become a millionaire and had lost everything again. "'Old Pluster' made me rich, and when the old crate began to break down, things started to go downhill with me, too. But I always say: it's early days yet! Luck comes to everybody - once, twice and more. You just have to be on the look-out for it!" - "But who was 'Old Pluster'?" Frank asked curiously. - "Old Pluster was my car. We had wonderful times together. It was red, had a four-cylinder engine and all the other gadgets that a good old banger must have. It's over there in the car dump - my late lamented!" The old beggar wiped a tear from his eyes, and pointed to a big open space across the road on which all the discharged cars of Chicago city lay stacked in huge piles. In the twilight of the approaching evening it was an eerie sight. So every one of these dismal and abandoned wrecks had a human story to tell! "Go on over; have a look at the old crate and give it my regards. You'll find it on the right just inside the gate." The tramp positively pushed Frank across the street. Frank immediately found Mr. Sam Brankwyn's car in the light of the rising moon. It looked very much the worse for wear. Frank contemplated it with respect. The red paint gave it an oddly vibrant warmth: it didn't seem to be dead like the others, which lay there black and lifeless. Frank jumped in and, when he touched the gear and steering wheel, it seemed as though the intestines of the old car twitched. Frank began to examine it closely. The chassis had been repaired a few times, but what harm was that? The accelerator was there; so was the brake, the oil gauge, speedometer, chronometer. The car body was dented and bent, but nothing was missing. Frank now investigated the engine, the soul of the vehicle. All sorts of things were rusted and corroded, but ... Frank suddenly got a fright. Mr. Sam Brankwyn was standing at the back of the car. He was dressed in black with a shiny top-hat and gleaming white evening shirt. He held a large can in his beautifully manicured hands and poured a blue iridescent liquid out of it into the petrol tank. With a friendly but somewhat unreal smile, he fixed the jet and applied the magnet. He gave a sign to Frank which meant: "crank up". Spluttering noises came from the exhaust pipe; the engine backfired a few times, but then started to run. It rattled, and sang, sounding like brilliant jazz; the trumpets droned melodically, the saxophone blared out; the violins, xylophone joined in - all this colourful whirl resounded from the bonnet of the car. Florian was already sitting inside; now Frank jumped in and took up his position at the wheel. Mr. Sam Brankwyn, now altogether the elegant gentleman, held out his hand to bid him fareful and bowed formally. Frank saw him open his mouth and made out the words: "I wish you every success!"

 THAT'S SUCCESS!     SECTION FOUR