Woody liked Worm. He was a good boss with a quiet sense of humor and an inexhaustible knowledge of the insides of automobiles. Woody could never make up his mind whether Worm really liked cars or not. He seemed to view them all with a certain contempt. "Bucket" was his terse term for any automobile brought into the service station for repair--though it was a term he did not use in the presence of the owner. Cadillacs, Thunderbirds, or Chevvies--all were buckets to Worm. Yet he worked on them with the greatest care, and when he was through, had always done an expert job. It was hard for Woody to understand why he viewed all automobiles with such contempt and yet worked on them with such care. Worm was putting the pan back on a Chevvy now--the same car whose carburetor Woody was busy cleaning. He rolled out from underneath, got to his feet somewhat unsteadily, and hunched his thin shoulders forward. This done, he reached gingerly with two long greasy fingers into the breast pocket of his shirt and took out a cigarette. "Hurry oop wi' yon carburetor and let's get this bucket o' bolts oot of here," he said. His accent, after fifteen years in America, was still straight from Aberdeen, Scotland. Woody by now had the carburetor back together again and got busy installing it. All the time he kept wondering whether he ought to call Bob Peters and tell him he found he hadn't the dough and the manifold deal was off. Or whether he ought to call Mary Jane and tell her something had come up and he couldn't take her out that night. Or whether, just on the chance that this was a day for miracles, he ought to ask Worm for a loan of six or seven bucks. He decided, since Worm was close at hand and relaxing with his cigarette, that he'd try him first. "Say, Worm," he said in as offhand a manner as he could manage, "how about letting me have a couple of bucks until payday?" "Bucket o' bolts," he said ignoring the question completely and shaking his head more in sorrow than in anger over the Chevvy. "Mon, they ought to take the poor beastie and gie her a decent Christian burial. She's eighty thousand miles on her if she's been driven a yard." Woody was used to these tactics and knew what to do about them. He said nothing for a minute or two while he connected the gas line to the carburetor. Then he said, "How about letting me have a couple of bucks until payday, Worm?" "It's a wonder her wheels aren't square," said Worm, concentrating with great determination on the car. "I tell you, laddie, there's no one but McNess could have got her running again." "You could take it all out of the first pay check," Woody persisted. "Her cylinders have been bored so many times, her pistons will be slapping aroond in water before long." "Worm, I just got to have the dough." "Hoot, laddie. What's all your concern aboot money? Ye'll only be spending it. When I served my apprenticeship in Aberdeen, I worked five years without getting a nickel."