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.