Achilles came to the door of the shop and looked out. A car had driven up to the sidewalk—a rough, racing machine with open sides and big wheels—and the driver, a big man in a white cap and rough linen suit, was beckoning to him with his hand. Achilles stepped across the walk, and stood by the machine with quiet, waiting face.

The man looked him over, a little as if he owned him—“I want some fruit,” he said quickly, “—oranges—grapes—anything—?” His glance ran to the fruit on the stall. “Get me something quick—and don’t be all day—” His hand was fumbling for change.

“I get you best oranges,” said Achilles. He snapped open a paper bag and turned to the heaped-up fruit. Then his eye paused—a boy was breaking through the crowd—hatless, breathless—and calling him with swift gesture.

Achilles sprang forward. “What is it, Alcie?” His eye was searching the crowd, and his hand dropped to the boy’s shoulder.

“There they are!” gasped the boy. “There!”

Achilles’s eye gleamed—down the street, a little way off, a car was wheeling out from the curb—gathering speed.

Achilles’s eyes flashed on it... and swept the crowd—and came back.

The man in the white cap by the curb was swearing softly. He leaped with two steps, from the panting car to the stall and began gathering up oranges. “Here—” he said. Then he wheeled—and saw the Greek fruit-dealer flashing off in a car—his car. “Here—you!” he shouted.

But Achilles gave no heed—and the boy, urging him on from behind, turned with swift smile—“He take your car—” he said, “he need that car!”

But the white-capped man pounced upon him and shook him by the shoulder—watching his car that was threading fast in the crowded traffic. He dropped the boy, and his hand reached up, signalling wildly for police—a city service car sprang from the ground, it seemed. The white-capped man leaped in and they were off—honking the crowd... heavy drays moved from before them with slow, eternal wheel—the white cap swore softly and leaned forward and urged... and the dark, Greek head bobbed far ahead—along in the crowd—the big, grey racer gathering speed beneath. Achilles was not thinking of the pursuit, yelling behind him—he had no thoughts—only two eyes that held a car far in the distance, and two hands that gripped the wheel and drove hard, and prayed grimly. If his eye lost that car! It was turning now—far ahead and his eye marked the place and held it—fixed. His car jolted and bumped. Men swore and made way before him, and noted the hatless head, and looked behind—and saw the police car—and yelled aloud. But no one saw him in time, and he was not stopped. He had reached the corner where the car disappeared from sight, and he leaned forward, with careful turn, peering around the corner. They were there—yes! He drove faster—and the great, ugly car lifted itself and flung forward and settled to long sliding gait. The car ahead turned again in the whirling traffic—and turned again. But Achilles’s eye did not lose its track... and they were out in the open at last—the plain stretching before them—no turn to left or right—and the machine Achilles drove had no equal in the country. But Achilles did not know his machine. Good or bad, it must serve him and keep his men in sight—but not too near—not to frighten them! They had turned now and were glancing back and they spoke quickly. Then they looked again—at the flying and hatless head—and saw suddenly, on behind it, the service car leap softly around the corner into the white road. They looked again—and laughed. They turned and dropped the matter. “Some damn fool with a stolen car.”