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.