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starter button. The motor didn’t take hold the first time and she kept grinding at it. I’d started away, but turned now and came back.
    “What do you suppose is the matter?” she asked petulantly.
    “I think it’s flooded. 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. We sort out the clothes and send bundles.”
    That’s nice, I thought. They send bundles. Well, maybe it keeps them off the streets. We went down a block beyond the bank and turned right into a cross street which was only a couple of blocks long. There wasn’t much here after you got off the main drag. A small chain grocery stood on the corner, and beyond that there was a Negro juke joint covered with Coca-Cola signs. She went on up to the second block and stopped in front of a building on the right. It was a boxlike two-storey frame with glass show-windows in front and vacant lots full of dead brown weeds on both sides. You could still see the lettering “ TAYLOR HARDWARE ” on the windows, but they were fly-specked and dirty and the place was vacant, and the door was closed with a big padlock. A “ FOR RENT ” sign leaned against the glass down in one corner. We got out and she fished around in her bag for the key. Standing up, she wasn’t as tall as the Harper girl and had none of her long-legged, easy grace, but she was stacked smoothly and twelve to the dozen against the contoured retaining-wall of her clothes.
    She went around and opened the trunk of the car. “I expect it’ll take two trips,” she said.
    I glanced in. There were two bundles of old newspapers and magazines tied up with cord, and a lot of loose clothes. I hefted the papers. They weren’t over fifty or seventy-five pounds each, so I gathered them up and asked her to stuff the old clothes under my arms.
    She looked up at me with a kittenish smile. “Well, goodness, I expect to carry something myself. I