"Woody," his mother said when he came through the kitchen door. "Somebody called you on the phone about ten minutes ago. But she hung up without giving her name when I said you weren't in." "Any idea who it was?" Woody asked. "It sounded like Mary Jane," his mother replied. "Gosh," said Woody and went immediately to the telephone. His father, now back from his business trip and sitting in the living room reading, sighed. He served on the City Council at Hermosa Beach and was having a hard time analysing a report on street improvement. "Try and keep it short," he said, but he didn't think it would do much good. Telephone conversations with Mary Jane seemed to last a minimum of half an hour. "Hello," said Woody into the phone. "Mary Jane? Were you calling me?" There was a short interval of silence during which Mr. Hartford was shocked to discover from his report that it had cost the city $217 to replace damaged rubbish-disposal bins during the year. Then Woody said plaintively, "Gee, Mary Jane. I can't. I've got Cindy Lou all fixed up and I'm going to try her out--" He didn't finish the sentence but hung up despondently. Mr. Hartford looked up from his report. Vague memories of similar unsatisfactory conversations many years before with Woody's mother came back to him. "Something wrong, son?" he asked. "Oh, Mary Jane wants me to go to somebody's birthday party, and now she's mad because I have to take Cindy Lou out for a fast run." Mr. Hartford took off his glasses and looked at his son strangely. It was as if he had suddenly discovered a completely new aspect of his character. "Cindy Lou for a fast run?" he said. "Cindy Lou is Woody's hot rod," Mrs. Hartford explained, and his father relaxed. "Oh," he grunted. There were times when he realized that Woody lived in a world completely different from his own, and this was one of them. "Never mind," said Mrs. Hartford comfortingly. "Mary Jane's a sensible girl. She'll see things in their right light after a while. Your father and I had many misunderstandings before we were married." "Yes," said Woody gloomily. "But there wasn't a Bob Peters with a yellow Buick convertible hanging around in the background." "As I recall it," said Mr. Hartford, "there was a young medical student by the name of Saunders who drove a Stutz Bearcat. But for my happy intervention, my boy, you might be the son of a doctor, devoting your life to the dissection of frogs." Mrs. Hartford laughed, and for a moment she seemed, even to Woody, a young girl.