“Heck, that’s okay, I don’t mind. I talk a-mile-a-minute, anyway—you probably noticed, huh? Old blabbermouth Sam. But when you’re spieling all day, almost every day, it gets to be a habit.”

“I don’t see anything odd, the way you speak,” Adam said, glancing at the woman.

“Vy does. My little girl is a real lady, you can tell that a block away, and sometimes I get on her nerves. But—well, this gimmick, what it did, it broke up the flow of gasoline to the carburetors of your car; and that makes for smoother feeding, better mileage, faster acceleration, and everything. That’s what we said, anyway. It should have worked, too—I mean, it made perfect sense. Only it didn’t work. What’d they cost us, baby?”

“Thirty-five cents.”

“Yeah, that’s right, thirty-five cents. And we sold them for three dollars . . .”

Griffin elaborated on the methods he and his wife had used to push the Air-Flow-Master, what he thought of the California climate, how he handled hecklers, and Adam listened and watched Vy Griffin as he listened.

“. . . of course, I say we. The little girl hates doing that kind of work, and I don’t blame her, in a way, so she always stays home. Old Sam don’t mind . . .”

At a restaurant called the Palace, Griffin stopped talking.

They went inside—it was a big room; deserted—and took a booth in the center.

“Food ain’t really too good here,” Griffin whispered, “but it’s better than anywhere else this time of day. Get your eggs scrambled.”

A woman with a bleached and naked face appeared; in her weariness, in the lackluster eyes, she provided a perfect contrast to Sam Griffin’s flashing red vitality.

“Watch this,” Sam whispered; then he said, “We want three orders of framistan covered in fortis oil with a little sumis on the side.”

“Beg pardon?” the woman said, not smiling.

Griffin roared, thumping the table. “Scrambled eggs and coffee. Three orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Holy cow! Every morning, that’s what I say; and she still don’t get it. ‘Beg pardon?’ Oh my. Well, anyway, Mr. Cramer, you’re staying a while in Caxton? You’ll like it.” His voice rang even more loudly than before. “You’ll like it: it’s a fine place. The people got brains—except for that waitress. They work at their clubs, you know? Lions, Elks, Rotary; all like that. Very community-­minded, I mean. And they’re honest. When Vy and me settle down and get through with all this running around, I don’t know but what we won’t pitch tent right here. What about that, baby?”

Vy Griffin said, “Sure, why not?”