as a signal for beer to be brought from Vielhaber’s.  The boy widened eyes of utter belief upon him, and Wilbur Cowan once more felt all his years.  But he was still lamentably indecisive about his future, and when a new printer looked in upon the Advance he stepped aside.  Whatever he was going to make of himself it wouldn’t be someone who had to sit down indoors.  He would be slave to no linotype until they were kept in the open.  He told Sam Pickering this in so many words.

The former Mansion’s stable at length engaged his wandering fancy.  The stable’s old swinging sign—­a carefully painted fop with flowing side whiskers and yellow topcoat swiftly driving a spirited horse to a neat red-wheeled run-about—­had been replaced by First-Class Garage.  Of its former activities remained only three or four sedate horses to be driven by conservatives; and Starling Tucker, who lived, but lived in the past, dazed and unbelieving—­becoming vivacious only in speech, beginning, “I remember when—­”

These memories dealt with a remote time, when a hawse was a hawse, and you couldn’t have it put all over you by a lot of slick young smarties that could do a few things with a monkey wrench.  Starling, when he thus discoursed, sat chiefly in the little office before the rusty stove, idly flicking his memory with a buggy whip from the rack above his head, where reposed a dozen choice whips soon to become mere museum pieces.

Wilbur’s connection with this thriving establishment was both profitable and entertaining.  Judge Penniman divined the truth of it.

“He don’t work—­he just plays!”

He played with disordered motors and unerringly put them right.  But he seemed to lack steadiness of purpose.  He would leave an ailing car to help out Sam Pickering, or he would leave for a round of golf with Sharon Whipple, Sharon complaining that other people were nothing but doggoned golf lawyers; and he would insist upon time off at three o’clock each afternoon to give Spike Brennon his work-out.  Spike had laboured to develop other talent in Newbern, but with ill success.  When you got ’em learned a little about the game they acted like a lot of sissies over a broken nose or a couple of front teeth out or something.  What he wanted was lads that would get the beak straightened, pretty near as good as new, or proper gold ones put in, and come back looking for more trouble.  Wilbur Cowan alone he had found dependable.

Even so, the monotony of mere car repairing began to irk him.  It was then he formed a pleasant alliance with old Porter Howgill, whose repair shop was across the street from the First-Class Garage.  Porter’s swinging sign, weathered and ancient like that of the Mansion’s stable, said in bold challenge, “Ask me!  I do everything!” And once Porter had done everything.  Now there were a number of things he couldn’t do, even when asked.  He was aging and knotted with rheumatism, and his failing eyes did not now suffice for many of the nicer jobs.