"Try 'er now," he said. "Wiggle somethin'. Make 'er go." "Sure," I said caustically. "All I need is a nice long hill." * * * * * But I climbed in and kicked the starter. Then I yelled. Because the old jalopy gave one disgusted snort, then began to purr like a fireside tabby! "She roars," he said, "purty. Don't she?" "She do, indeed," I told him exuberantly. "Say, friend, why didn't you tell me you were a mechanic? You've saved me three aspirins and a broken arch." "Me a mechanic?" he drawled. "Shucks, Mister, I ain't never seen the innards of one of them things before." "You've never--" I chuckled. "Cut the comedy. Then how did you know what to do to make it start?" He squirmed, a trifle embarrassedly, I thought, and shuffled his feet. "Well, now, it just stood to reason," he said. "Seemed like that thingamajig hangin' on the whatchamaycallit should've--" I grinned. "Okay, pal. You've got secrets, I've got secrets, all God's children got secrets. Anyhow, thanks for the first-aid. Here's a little something for your--" But he shook his head. "Aw, that's all right," he mumbled. "'Twarn't nothin', Mister. So long." He grinned and ambled off across the field. And that was that. I reached Westville before dark, found the man I'd been sent out to interview, and told him who I was. "I'm Jim Blakeson," I said. "There's a rumor that I'm the Public Relations Department for Midland University. It's a phony. Between you and me and the League of Nations, I'm really the third assistant errand boy for Culture, Inc. Now--about this new comet you discovered. "Midland is all upsy-daisy to find such a promising young amateur astronomer in the state. They're willing to subsidize you to the extent of a newer and larger telescope if you'll agree to act as a lay member of their observatory staff. What say?" The ham star-gazer--Hawkins was his name--turned a delicate shade of mauve. It was happiness, I think. For a minute I thought he was going to kiss me. Then delight went out and he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Blakeson, but I can't accept your offer. I'd love to, but the truth of the matter is--I'm not the man who discovered that comet." I said, "Wait a minute. Maybe I'm in the wrong galaxy. You're Hawkins, aren't you? You're the guy who plotted the comet's course, no?" "I'm Hawkins. I plotted its course. But I didn't discover it." His spirits were down around his shoelaces now. "That was done by a neighbor of mine, a few miles down the way. Chap by the name of Hank Cleaver. 'Horse-sense Hank', we call him." My extra-sensory perception percepted. "Don't look now," I said, "but is this Horse-sense Hank a long cold drink of wisdom about thirty years old? Given to lack of speech and habit of chewing tobacco?"