"I got news for you," said Steve. "One of the Type D Jags at the Le Mans race recently developed two hundred and eighty-five horsepower with a two hundred and ten cubic-inch engine. And it was running on just plain old gasoline. You know any hot rods can do that?"
Woody admitted that he didn't.
"Well, you want to come and see these little bugs, or aren't you interested in anything that hasn't got an engine big enough to drive a tank?"
"I guess I can take a look at them," Woody said grudgingly.
"I was hoping you'd see it that way, on account of I need a ride."
"Just a minute," said Woody. "What kind of a deal is this? I haven't got any transportation."
"I know you haven't, pal," replied Steve. "But if you're going, you can talk Worm into taking us there. Tell him every one of these cars was built by a guy who studied under Davie that wrote the book on internal combustion engines. S'long."
Worm, however, was strangely hesitant about going to the technical inspection. He displayed an odd mixture of keenness and reluctance, as if half of him was excited at the prospect and half of him deeply disturbed. His long fingers trembled slightly as he lit his cigarette, and it took him two matches to achieve the task.
"Och," he said finally, looking queerly at Woody, "I wish ye'd said naething of it tae me."
Woody thought that Worm was merely reluctant to take them there in his car but, priding himself on the generosity of the Highland Scots, did not wish to appear stingy.