He counted his change--three dollars and forty-two cents. He had no bedroll; no overcoat, either. Even in this nice summer weather it might be a little tough for a fellow to get by on the road with so little plunder. Eighty-six was a trifle old for the rugged life. What he needed, of course, was a white-collar job. Not only needed, but deserved--he was a good clerk. Therefore he should go to the Hearst Building at Third and Market and scan the want ads posted there. As he'd been doing when in San Francisco for forty years. He thought of some of the many times he'd stared at that bulletin board. He'd gone there often during the years he'd worked as a construction timekeeper, before that skill became obsolete. Then there'd been an interval when he'd sold rebuilt window washers--for a firm which still owed him money. And he'd haunted the board during the months he'd had that job in the automatic grocery, replenishing the dispensing machines' merchandise. None of his jobs had come from a want ad. But he had to go look. It was a ritual. * * * * * The years had made the ritual a hard one for him. He could read the fine-printed columns only with head cocked an arm's length away from a cheap reading glass held up to them. He took a lot of room; forced a white-capped young mechanic to peer awkwardly around him. Embarrassed, Ollie moved out of the way. He'd begun to walk off when the young fellow stopped him. "I don't think you saw this one, Dad," he said, pointing. OLDER MEN (the ad read) without dependents needed for dangerous scientific experiments. If able to pass intensive physical and mental tests report for interview to Civilian Personnel Office, Short Air Force Base, Short, Utah. "I don't know where the place is at all," Ollie complained wearily. "Just this side of Salt Lake, on the main line," the young man said. "I served there, so I'm curious. If you're not--well--" He shrugged and edged away. "Thanks, son," Ollie called after him. "I'm going to follow that up." The young man walked on without looking back. Ollie felt committed, not only by his offhand declaration, but by his ritual. He'd come to look for a job; he'd found one for which he was eligible; he must go after it. He headed down Third Street toward the freight yards but stopped at a skidrow restaurant for a bowl of stew and a cup of coffee. Passing an old-fashioned catchpenny grocery he went in and bought a half-dozen rolls to take with him. The proprietor, squat, unshaven, and swarthy, picked out a large red apple and slipped it in with the rolls. "Good for you," he said, smiling. Ollie shook his head. The grocer frowned, then replaced the apple with an orange. "Easier on teeth," he said. "Thank you," said Ollie, smiling. "You make me feel lucky. I'm answering a want ad--maybe I'll get the job." The grocer smiled vaguely. "I hope." Then his face livened. "What job? In paper?"