his
father and the flying car.

The next day coming down the steps of a house and counting slow change,
he looked up with a swift glance--something had passed him; for a moment
he had only a glimpse--something familiar--a kind of home sense--then
the figure of Achilles flashed out--the car shot round a corner. He sped
to the corner and looked down the long road--no one--only two rows
of poplars with their silvery, stirring leaves, and not a soul in
sight--and respectable houses on either side watching, as if nothing
had happened, or ever would. Yaxis returned to his cart, wiping the fine
moisture from his forehead. Every day now, his glance travelled about
him as he pushed his cart along the quieter streets where his route lay.
And often at the end of long vistas, or down a side street, he caught a
glimpse of the shooting car and the dark, erect figure poised forward on
its seat, looking far ahead.

At home, in the dusky interior, Achilles moved with sedate step, his
hair combed, his slim hands busy with the smooth fruit. Yaxis, in the
doorway, looked at him with curious, wistful eyes.

Achilles glanced up and nodded, and the little smile on his dark face
grew. He came forward. "You had good day?" he said.

"Yes, father...." The boy hesitated a moment, and dug his toes--and
flung out his hands in quick gesture. "I see you!" he said. "You go in
massheen!"

Achilles's glance flashed and grew to a deep, still smile. "You see
that machine? You see me drive him? _I_ make that machine go!" His chest
expanded and he moved a few free steps and paused.

The boy's eyes rested on him proudly. Around them--out in the grimy
street--the world hurried and scuffled and honked; and in the little
back shop the father and the boy faced each other, a strange, new, proud
joy around them. "I drive that machine," said Achilles softly.

XXV

AND STARTS OFF

Achilles came to the door of the shop and looked out. A car had driven
up to the sidewalk--a rough, racing machine with open sides and big
wheels--and the driver, a big man in a white cap and rough linen suit,
was beckoning to him with his hand. Achilles stepped across the walk,
and stood by the machine with quiet, waiting face.

The man looked him over, a little as if he owned him--"I want some
fruit," he said quickly, "--oranges--grapes--anything--?" His glance
ran to the fruit on the stall. "Get me something quick--and don't be all
day--" His hand was fumbling for chan