Hold the accelerator all the way to the floor while you crank it.”

“Oh,” she said. “Like this?”

I looked in the car. It was stupid, actually, because anybody would know how to press down on the gas to cut out an automatic choke, but I looked anyway. She had very small feet in white shoes which were mostly heels, and around one ankle, under the nylon, she had one of those gold chains women wore a year or so ago. The seersucker skirt was up over her knees. Well, I thought, she asked me to. What did she expect?

“Yes,” I said. “Like that.”

She jabbed at the starter again and in a moment the motor caught and took off. She smiled. “Well. How did you know that?”

“It’s just one of those things you pick up.”

“Oh. I see. Well, thanks a lot.” She waved a hand and drove off.

In about twenty minutes she was back. I was sitting in the office, and when she tapped the horn I went out. “George hasn’t got back yet?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Oh, darn. He never remembers anything.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She hesitated. “I hate to ask you. I mean, you’re working.”

“I’m not hurting myself. What is it?”

“Well, if you really wouldn’t mind. It’d only take a few minutes.” She gestured towards the rear of the car. “I’ve got a lot of papers and old clothes I want to unload in our storeroom, and I promised to take the key back before noon.”

“Sure,” I said, “where is it?”

“Are you sure it’ll be all right to leave for a few minutes?”

“Yes. Gulick can hold it down.” I looked up the lot. He and the Negro boy were still rooted in the same spot, staring at the old convertible. It’s like a horse trade, I thought; it’ll be hours before either of them makes a move.

I slid in beside her and we started down Main Street. “It’s awful nice of you,” she said. “The stuff is tied up in heavy packages, and I couldn’t carry it by myself.”

“What is it?” I asked. “A junk drive?”

“Uh-uh. It’s our club project. We store the stuff in Mr. Taylor’s old building and every two or three months a junk man comes and buys the paper.