"Gee, is she still reading those swell Huxley books?" asked Woody, determined to ingratiate himself wherever he might. "Huxley?" said Mrs. Jackson. "No. It's not Huxley, Woody. The last book she had was called, I think, _The Philosophy of Salesmanship_. She's become very interested in selling lately. Last night she gave her father quite a questioning on whether he was carrying sufficient insurance." "Oh," groaned Woody. "Well, thanks, Mrs. Jackson." "Shall I tell her you'll call again when she comes in?" Mrs. Jackson asked. "No," said Woody. "I don't think I will, Mrs. Jackson." "All right," said Mrs. Jackson. "I think I understand." The next day Steve called him up. Steve was worried about Woody's attitude, which was very gloomy, and had devised a plan that he hoped would cheer him up. "Listen," he said. "Got a real good deal for us. There's a tech inspection for the sports cars for the Torrey Pines race tonight. How about going along? Lots of cars of all kinds. Ferraris, Maseratis, Austin Healeys, Jags, TR2's. What d'ya say?" "Mickey Mouse stuff," was Woody's reply. "What d'ya mean, Mickey Mouse stuff?" demanded Steve. "There isn't enough horsepower in any one of them to go over a cardboard box without changing gears," said Woody scornfully. "I got news for you," said Steve. "One of the Type D Jags at the Le Mans race recently developed two hundred and eighty-five horsepower with a two hundred and ten cubic-inch engine. And it was running on just plain old gasoline. You know any hot rods can do that?" Woody admitted that he didn't. "Well, you want to come and see these little bugs, or aren't you interested in anything that hasn't got an engine big enough to drive a tank?" "I guess I can take a look at them," Woody said grudgingly. "I was hoping you'd see it that way, on account of I need a ride." "Just a minute," said Woody. "What kind of a deal is this? I haven't got any transportation." "I know you haven't, pal," replied Steve. "But if you're going, you can talk Worm into taking us there. Tell him every one of these cars was built by a guy who studied under Davie that wrote the book on internal combustion engines. S'long." Worm, however, was strangely hesitant about going to the technical inspection. He displayed an odd mixture of keenness and reluctance, as if half of him was excited at the prospect and half of him deeply disturbed. His long fingers trembled slightly as he lit his cigarette, and it took him two matches to achieve the task. "Och," he said finally, looking queerly at Woody, "I wish ye'd said naething of it tae me." Woody thought that Worm was merely reluctant to take them there in his car but, priding himself on the generosity of the Highland Scots, did not wish to appear stingy. "Gee, Worm," he said, "if you don't want to take the Dodge, Steve and I can find some other way of getting there."