"Chesbro? A big wheel over in the next county. Justice of the Peace. Owns business buildings; couple of radio stations; the newspaper, I don't know the name. I just get copies of the _Weekly Times_; they send them so I can check my ads. Every week I take one. You look on page seven, tell me what you think of it." Groff yanked the paper open, looked at the grocer's little ad on page seven and said: "You're Sam Zehedi? Syrian?" The man looked gratified. "How'd you know?" "A couple of your boys used to work for me. Damn fine millwrights." "That's us!" Sam Zehedi said. "You give a Syrian a busted machine and a wrench, he'll have it going in five minutes. We're a civilized, Christian people. We been Christian a lot longer than the French or the Germans. And you know what some dumb people called me when I first bought the store? An Ay-rab. A heathen Ay-rab." "They'll learn." Groff shrugged. He studied the newspaper story. So this Chesbro was interested in newspapers. It looked, it very definitely looked, as though he might have a piece of the _Hebertown Weekly Times_ in his pocket; the story was pure propaganda. Sam Zehedi went on: "Oh, they're learning. It's been five years now, and I didn't let any grass grow under my feet. I'm a respected man in this community, mister. You don't hear any Ay-rab talk any more, except maybe from some of the summer people. Jews--they're bitter about Ay-rabs, but then somebody sets them straight. I guess I'm the first Syrian boy around here except for peddlers going through in the old days the way they used to. It's like being a pioneer. Or a missionary." He glanced at the clock. "What the hell," he said, "I don't think anybody else is coming in this rain. I'll get the truck started and pull her around the front, then you can hop right in and I'll lock up, then we'll go tow you out." "Fine," Groff said. "I appreciate it very much." The storekeeper disappeared in the back; a door slammed and over the drumming rain Groff heard a truck engine roar into life. Zehedi gunned it and held it for a minute and then took off, swinging the pickup around in front. Groff dashed for the cab when the door swung open and vaulted in. His speed hadn't helped him a bit; he was wet all over again from his brief exposure. Zehedi got out on his side, sensibly swathed in a slicker, put out the lantern in the store and locked up. He climbed back into the cab and had to raise his voice to be heard above the rain beating on the top. "Well, here we go, mister. About how far?" "Quarter of a mile, maybe." "We'll get you there." He put the truck in gear and crawled away from the store, feeding the gas lightly. "My tires are pretty good," he said. "I'd hate to start spinning my wheels, though." They crawled up the long, gentle grade into the driving torrents.