Achilles found Philip Harris at luncheon, and waited for him to come back, and laid his plan before him.

The millionaire listened, and nodded once or twice, and took up the receiver and gave an order. “He’ll be at your place every day,” he said to Achilles as he hung it up. “You tell him what you want—and let me know if there’s anything else—money—?” He looked at him.

But Achilles shook his head. “I got money,” he said quickly. “I get money—six—seven dollar—every day. I do good business!”

The millionaire smiled, a little bitterly. “I do good business, too; but it doesn’t seem to count much. Well—let me know—” He held out his hand and Achilles took it and hesitated and looked at the seamed red face that waited for him to go—then he went quietly out.

He would have liked to speak swift words of hope—they rode high in his heart—but something in the face put him off and he went out into the sunshine and walked fast. He looked far ahead as he went, smiling softly at his dream. And now and then a man passed him—and looked back and smiled too—a shrew, tolerant, grown-up smile.

At ten o’clock the next morning Philip Harris’s big touring car drew up in front of the striped awning; it gave a little plaintive honk—and stood still. Achilles came to the door with swift look. He turned back to the shop. “I go,” he said to Alcibiades, and stepped across the pavement, and was off.

At two o’clock he returned to the shop, his face covered with big beads of perspiration, his hat gone and his eyes shining—and, without a word, he went about the shop with his wonted air of swift-moving silence. But the next day he was off again, and the next; and Alcibiades grew accustomed to the long car slipping up and the straight, slim figure sliding into it and taking its place and disappearing down the street.

Where Achilles went on these excursions, or what he did, no one knew. Promptly at two each day he returned—always dishevelled and alert, but wearing a look of triumph that sat strangely on the quiet Greek reserve. It could not be said that Achilles strutted as he walked, but he had an air of confidence, as if he were seeing things—things far ahead—that were coming to him on the long road.

The boys could not make him out... and their loyalty would not let them question him. But one day Yaxis, resting on the parapet that overlooked the lake, his cart drawn a little to one side, his hat off and his face taking in the breeze, saw a strange sight. It was a wide roadway, and free of traffic, and Yaxis had turned his head and looked up and down its length. In the distance a car was coming—it was not speeding. It seemed coming on with little foolish movements—halting jerks and impatient honks.... Yaxis’s eye rested on it bewildered—then it broke to a smile. Father was driving! The chauffeur, beside him, with folded arms and set face had washed his hands of all responsibility—and the face of the Greek was shining. The great machine swerved and balked and ran a little way and stopped—Yaxis laughed softly. The chauffeur bent over with a word, and the thing shot off, Achilles with intent back, holding fast by both hands his face set and shining ahead. Up and down the roadway, the thing zigzagged—back and forth—spitting a little and fizzing behind. Like a great beast it snarled and snorted and stood out and waited the lash—and came to terms, gliding at last, by a touch along the smooth road—the face of Achilles transfigured in a dream.... The Acropolis floated behind him in the haze. The wings of the morning waited his coming and his hands gripped hard on the wheel of the world. Yaxis watched the car as it flashed and floated in the sun and was gone—down the roadway—around the distant corner—out of sight, with its faint triumphant “honk-honk-honk!” trailing behind.

With a deep smile on his face Yaxis wheeled his cart into the roadway and pushed briskly toward home, his mind filled with the vision of his father and the flying car.

The next day coming down the steps of a house and counting slow change, he looked up with a swift glance—something had passed him; for a moment he had only a glimpse—something familiar—a kind of home sense—then the figure of Achilles flashed out—the car shot round a corner. He sped to the corner and looked down the long road—no one—only two rows of poplars with their silvery, stirring leaves, and not a soul in sight—and respectable houses on either side watching, as if nothing had happened, or ever would. Yaxis returned to his cart, wiping the fine moisture from his forehead. Every day now, his glance travelled about him as he pushed his cart along the quieter streets where his route lay. And often at the end of long vistas, or down a side street, he caught a glimpse of the shooting car and the dark, erect figure poised forward on its seat, looking far ahead.

At home, in the dusky interior, Achilles moved with sedate step, his hair combed, his slim hands busy with the smooth fruit. Yaxis, in the doorway, looked at him with curious, wistful eyes.

Achilles glanced up and nodded, and the little smile on his dark face grew. He came forward. “You had good day?” he said.

“Yes, father....” The boy hesitated a moment, and dug his toes—and flung out his hands in quick gesture. “I see you!” he said. “You go in massheen!”

Achilles’s glance flashed and grew to a deep, still smile. “You see that machine? You see me drive him? I make that machine go!” His chest expanded and he moved a few free steps and paused.

The boy’s eyes rested on him proudly. Around them—out in the grimy street—the world hurried and scuffled and honked; and in the little back shop the father and the boy faced each other, a strange, new, proud joy around them. “I drive that machine,” said Achilles softly.