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 change. “I get you best oranges,” said Achilles. He snapped open a paper bag and turned to the heaped-up fruit. Then his eye paused--a boy was breaking through the crowd--hatless, breathless--and calling him with swift gesture. Achilles sprang forward. “What is it, Alcie?” His eye was searching the crowd, and his hand dropped to the boy’s shoulder. “There they are!” gasped the boy. “_There!_” Achilles’s eye gleamed--down the street, a little way off, a car was wheeling out from the curb--gathering speed. Achilles’s eyes flashed on it... and swept the crowd--and came back.