"He is out of Medusa by Neptune," says Jimmie.
"I never heard of them, neither," I says shoveling in a mouthful of potatoes and gravy. "What has this here Peg-whoit got to do with you?"
"I am not certain for sure," he says, "but I has got a idea,"
"Which is?"
"Could be he got blowed off his course," Jimmie says, "or got scared by another gadfly or some such, landed in Tijuana and this here Muse comes after him and—"
"Look," I says, "one of us has got a screw loose and it is not me. Begin over and repeat slow and there is apple pie with the dinner and if you do not want it I will eat your piece, if it is all the same to you. Now what was you saying?"
He shoves his plate back. "I am going to break the track record tomorrow," he says, and there is something about the way he says it, some quality in his voice that makes me sit up and take notice all of a sudden.
A kind of creepy sensation comes over me and I am reminded of when I am a kid and the grandfather's clock in the hall would strike during the night. It would go bong—bong—bong real slow and soft, but filling the house, howinever, and making the air vibrate. I would lie there and think, "It is just the grandfather's clock in the hall," but that did not make no difference. My feet would get cold and my eyes near bug out of my head, and I would not have no swallow and I would lie there thinking, "It is just the grandfather's clock in the hall."
I gives Jimmie one of them searching looks you read about, but it does not tell me nothing except that he is a mite tightened-uplike and is letting some fifty cents worth of food go to waste.
"Thanks for the tip," I says. "Who you planning on being up on? Man-o'-War?"