"Of course I have a point, Mr. Horner," said the attendant. "Folks spent all that money on machines, what I mean, and almost nothing on themselves. Tell me what happens when a guy develops a bad ticker—Wait, I'll tell you what happens. He sits somewhere in a soft chair, on a porch maybe, sucking on a dry pipe and waiting for the next attack, which will probably kill him."
"I've heard pleasanter talk," Hugh Horner said in sudden distaste.
"What's the matter? Afraid of the truth?"
"Now really!" said Horner.
"How old are you, Mr. Horner? Forty-five?"
"I'm forty-seven," Horner admitted. His age, thus objectively stated in his own voice, came as a mild shock. Forty-seven! He was virtually middle-aged.
"Forty-seven! How many years before you change the car's battery?"
"Why, two or three, I guess."
"The tires?"
"Every twenty-five thousand miles. That would be about three years."