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Toward noon, as Buffum was approaching the village of Apogee, Iowa, the smooth blaring of the motor was interrupted by a noise as though the engine was flying to pieces.

He yanked at the switch; before the car had quite halted, Roy and he had tumbled out at opposite sides, were running forward to lift the hood. The fan-guard, a heavy wire soldered on the radiator, had worked loose and bent a fan-blade, which had ripped out a handful of honeycomb. The inside of the radiator looked as though it had been hacked with a dull knife. The water was cascading out.

Buffum speculated: “Apogee next town. Can’t get radiator there. None nearer ‘n Clinton. Get this soldered. Here! You!”

The “Here! You!” was directed at the driver of an ancient roadster. “Got to hustle this boat into next town. Want you to haul me in. ”

Roy Bender had already snatched a tow-rope from the back of the racing car, was fastening it to the front axle of the Mallard, the rear of the roadster.

Buffum gave no time for disputes. “I’m J. T. Buffum. Racin’ ‘cross continent. Here’s ten dollars. Want your machine ten minutes. I’ll drive. ” He had crowded into the seat. Already, with Roy steering the Mallard, they were headed for Apogee.

A shouting crowd ran out from house and store. Buffum slowly looked them over. Of a man in corduroy trousers and khaki shirt, who had plumped out of a garage, he demanded: “Who’s the best solderer in town?”

“I am. Good as anybody in Iowa. ”

“Now, wait! Know who I am?”

“Sure! You’re Buffum. ”

“My radiator is shot to thunder. Got to be soldered. I want six hours’ work done in one hour, or less. How about the hardware store? Isn’t there a solderer there that’s even better than you?”

“Yes, I guess maybe old Frank Dieters is. ”

“Get him, and get the other good man, and get busy. One of you work on each side. Roy Bender here will boss you. ” Already Roy was taking down the radiator. “One hour, remember. Hurry! Plenty of money in it—”

“Oh, we don’t care anything about the money!”

“Thanks, old man. Well, I might as well grab a little sleep. Where’ll I get a long-distance connection?” he yawned.

“Across the street at Mrs. Rivers’. Be less noise than in the garage, I guess. ”

Over the way was a house that was a large square box with an octagonal cupola on the mansard roof. It was set back in a yard of rough grass and old crabapple trees. At the gate were a smallish, severe woman, in spectacles and apron, and a girl of twenty-five or —six. Buffum looked at the girl twice, and tried to make out what it was that distinguished her from all the other women in the crowd that had come pushing and giggling to see the famous car.

She was sharply individualized. It was not that she was tall and blazing. She was slight—and delicate as a drypoint etching. Her chin was precise though soft; she had a Roman nose, a feminized charming version of the Roman nose. The thing that made her distinctive, Buffum reflected, was her poise. The girl by the gate was as quietly aloof as the small cold moon of winter.

He plodded across the road. He hesitated before speaking.

“I hope there hasn’t been an accident,” she murmured to him.

“No, just a small repair. ”

“But, why does everyone seem so much concerned?”

“Why, it’s—it’s—I’m J. T. Buffum. ”

“Mr. —uh—Buffum?”

“I reckon you never heard of me. ”

“Why, uh—should I have?” Her eyes were serious, regretful at discourtesy.

“No. You shouldn’t. I just mean—Motor-fans usually have. I’m a racer. I’m driving from San Francisco to New York. ”