"Me a mechanic?" he drawled. "Shucks, Mister, I ain't never seen the innards of one of them things before."
"You've never—" I chuckled. "Cut the comedy. Then how did you know what to do to make it start?"
He squirmed, a trifle embarrassedly, I thought, and shuffled his feet.
"Well, now, it just stood to reason," he said. "Seemed like that thingamajig hangin' on the whatchamaycallit should've—"
I grinned. "Okay, pal. You've got secrets, I've got secrets, all God's children got secrets. Anyhow, thanks for the first-aid. Here's a little something for your—"
But he shook his head. "Aw, that's all right," he mumbled. "'Twarn't nothin', Mister. So long." He grinned and ambled off across the field. And that was that.
I reached Westville before dark, found the man I'd been sent out to interview, and told him who I was.
"I'm Jim Blakeson," I said. "There's a rumor that I'm the Public Relations Department for Midland University. It's a phony. Between you and me and the League of Nations, I'm really the third assistant errand boy for Culture, Inc. Now—about this new comet you discovered.
"Midland is all upsy-daisy to find such a promising young amateur astronomer in the state. They're willing to subsidize you to the extent of a newer and larger telescope if you'll agree to act as a lay member of their observatory staff. What say?"
The ham star-gazer—Hawkins was his name—turned a delicate shade of mauve. It was happiness, I think. For a minute I thought he was going to kiss me. Then delight went out and he shook his head.