Things, Woody replied, rubbing the end of his nose with an oil-blackened hand, were pretty good. He knew what was coming. Bob was on the line and after a little more palaver would want to know whether he was going to hand over the final payment on the manifold. Bob was never one to get right to the point. He was studying salesmanship and had read somewhere that most big sales were made in the course of friendly discussions with clients about their own problems and affairs. So Bob asked Woody whether he felt good and whether his dad was in good health and had he gone to the dry lakes racecourse last weekend and what he thought of the weather. Woody replied noncommittally to all these inquiries while he weighed Cindy Lou in the balance against Mary Jane. Finally Bob decided that he'd done enough of the friendly discussion part of salesmanship and should get down to the point. "Say, Woody," he said, "I don't want you to get the idea that I'm rushing you. But I've had a couple of offers for that manifold, and I was wondering whether you could give me the last payment and pick it up today. I'd like to have you have it rather than these other guys, but I need the dough today." "Wouldn't settle for five now and five next payday, would you?" asked Woody. "No," said Bob. "I'd like to oblige a pal. But I've got a real hot deal on myself, and I've got to have the skins." "O.K.," said Woody. "I'll pay it off." "Swell," said Bob. "You going to be there this evening?" "Until seven," Woody replied. "I'll buzz by with the plumbing and pick up the dough about six-thirty. S'long." "S'long," said Woody and put down the receiver. Only when he had hung up did he realize the enormity of his offense. Without consulting her, he had in one second rejected Mary Jane for Cindy Lou. And Mary Jane was definitely expecting to be taken out that night. When he'd paid for the manifold, he would have exactly one dollar and fifteen cents left. That was not sufficient for even a lemon-coke-and-movie evening. Furthermore there wasn't any hope of raising a loan this late in the day. Woody's father, who would be good for a loan after a slight lecture, was out of town. His mother, he knew, had only three or four dollars of housekeeping money around and probably needed that. And Worm McNess, proprietor of the McNess Union Service Station and Woody's boss, was as tight as a tappet. His idea of a loan was fifty cents, and Woody needed at least seven or eight dollars. Worm McNess came by his nickname fairly enough. His full name was William Orville Randolph McNess, the initials spelling "Worm." But beyond that he was long and thin, rather as if a piece of spaghetti had been brought to man size and given human features and limbs. And over and above all, this Worm could wiggle and twist around a car in positions next to impossible for mechanics built on more normal lines.