He stopped on his way to the garage to pet Emil Baumschweiger's large

gray cat, publicly known as Rags, but to Milt and to the lady herself

recognized as the unfortunate Countess Vere de Vere--perhaps the only

person of noble ancestry and mysterious past in Milt's acquaintance. The

Baumschweigers did not treat their animals well; Emil kicked the bay

mare, and threw pitchforks at Vere de Vere. Milt saluted her and

sympathized: "You have a punk time, don't you, countess? Like to beat it to

Minneapolis with me?"

The countess said that she did indeed have an extraordinarily punk time,

and she sang to Milt the hymn of the little gods of the warm hearth.

Then Milt's evening dissipations were over. Schoenstrom has movies only

once a week. He sat in the office of his garage ruffling through a

weekly digest of events. Milt read much, though not too easily. He had

no desire to be a poet, an Indo-Iranian etymologist, a lecturer to

women's clubs, or the secretary of state. But he did rouse to the

marvels hinted in books and magazines; to large crowds, the mechanism of

submarines, palm trees, gracious women.

He laid down the magazine. He stared at the wall. He thought about

nothing. He seemed to be fumbling for something about which he could

deliciously think if he could but grasp it. Without quite visualizing

either wall or sea, he was yet recalling old dreams of a moonlit wall by

a warm stirring southern sea. If there was a girl in the dream she was

intangible as the scent of the night. Presently he was asleep, a not at

all romantic figure, rather ludicrously tipped to one side in his office

chair, his large solid shoes up on the desk.

He half woke, and filtered to what he called home--one room in the

cottage of an oldish woman who had prejudices against the perilous night

air. He was too sleepy to go through any toilet save pulling off his

shoes, and achieving an unconvincing wash at the little stand, whose

crackly varnish was marked with white rings from the toothbrush mug.

"I feel about due to pull off some fool stunt. Wonder what it will be?"

he complained, as he flopped on the bed.

He was up at six, and at a quarter to seven was at work in the garage.

He spent a large part of the morning in trying to prove to a customer

that even a Teal car, best at the test, would not give perfect service

if the customer persisted in forgetting to fill the oil-well, the

grease-cups, and the battery.

At three minutes after twelve Milt left the garage to go to dinner. The

fog of the morning had turned to rain. McGolwey was not at the Old Home.

Sometimes Mac got tired of serving meals, and for a day or two he took

to a pocket flask, and among his former customers the cans of prepared

meat at Rauskukle's became popular. Milt found him standing under the

tin awning of the general store. He had a troubled hope of keeping Mac

from too long a vacation with the pocket flask. But Mac was already

red-eyed. He seemed only half to recognize Milt.




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