Boltwood chose to come tearing
through his life in a Gomez-Dep, Milt was the owner, manager,
bookkeeper, wrecking crew, ignition expert, thoroughly competent
bill-collector, and all but one of the working force of the Red Trail
Garage.

There were two factions in Schoenstrom: the retired farmers who said
that German was a good enough language for anybody, and that taxes for
schools and sidewalks were yes something crazy; and the group who
stated that a pig-pen is a fine place, but only for pigs. To this
second, revolutionary wing belonged a few of the first generation, most
of the second, and all of the third; and its leader was Milt Daggett. He
did not talk much, normally, but when he thought things ought to be
done, he was as annoying as a machine-gun test in the lot next to a
Quaker meeting.

If there had been a war, Milt would probably have been in it--rather
casual, clearing his throat, reckoning and guessing that maybe his men
might try going over and taking that hill ... then taking it. But all of
this history concerns the year just before America spoke to Germany; and
in this town buried among the cornfields and the wheat, men still
thought more about the price of grain than about the souls of nations.

On the evening before Claire Boltwood left Minneapolis and adventured
into democracy, Milt was in the garage. He wore union overalls that were
tan where they were not grease-black; a faded blue cotton shirt; and the
crown of a derby, with the rim not too neatly hacked off with a dull
toad-stabber jack-knife.

Milt smiled at his assistant, Ben Sittka, and suggested, "Well, _wie
geht 's mit_ the work, eh? Like to stay and get the prof's flivver out,
so he can have it in the morning?"

"You bet, boss."

"Getting to be quite a mechanic, Ben."

"I'll say so!"

"If you get stuck, come yank me out of the Old Home."

"Aw rats, boss. I'll finish it. You beat it." Ben grinned at Milt
adoringly.

Milt stripped off his overalls and derby-crown, and washed his big, firm
hands with gritty soft soap. He cleaned his nails with a file which he
carried in his upper vest pocket in a red imitation morocco case which
contained a comb, a mirror, an indelible pencil, and a note-book with
the smudged pencil addresses of five girls in St. Cloud, and a
memorandum about Rauskukle's car.

He put on a twisted brown tie, an old blue serge suit, and a hat which,
being old and shabby, had become graceful. He ambled up the street