THE shed that held the machine shop and garage fronted upon an informal lane skirting the verdurous border of the town. Beyond the fence opposite a broad pasturage dipped and rose to the blackened ruins of a considerable brick mansion, now tenanted by a provident colony of Italians; further hill topped green hill, the orchards drawn like silvery scarves about their shoulders, undulating to the sky. Back of the shed ranged the red roofs and tree-tops of the town.
When Anthony arrived at the seat of his industry the grass was flashing with dew and the air a thrill with the buoyant piping of robins. He found the door open, and Alfred Craik awaiting him.
“She's gone,” Alfred informed him.
“Sam told me last night; it was your infernal tinkering... you can't let a machine alone,” Anthony dropped beside the other on the door sill.
“Could we get another car, do you think?” Alfred demanded; “I had almost finished a humming experiment on Sam's.”
“This garage is closed,” Anthony pronounced; “it's out of existence. The family are yelping for the screwdrivers. What do we owe?”
“Three ninety to Feedler for 'gas,' and a month's rent.”
“We're bankrupt,” the other immediately declared. He rose, and proceeded to collect the tools that littered the floor; then he removed the sign, “Ball and Craik. Machine Shop and Garage.”, from the door, and the shed relapsed into its nondescript, somnolent decay.
“There's a game with Honeydale to-day,” Anthony resumed his seat; “I'm to pitch that, and another Saturday; and, hear me, boy, I need the money.”
Alfred gazed over the orchards, beyond the hills, into the sky, and made no answer. It was evident that he was lost in a vision of gloriously disrupted machinery. His silence spread to Anthony, who settled back with a cigarette into the drowsy stillness. The minutes passed, hovering like bees, and merged into an hour. They could hear a horse champing in the pasture; the wail of an Italian infant came to them thinly across the green; behind them sounded mellow the tin horn of the shad vendor.