“’Bout 8.30 it was or 9.00. While that car was here.”
The man was eloquent: quietly sure of himself, as if the assent of his fellows transfigured his words.
“He come to the floor and he says: ‘Lookin’ fer a mechanic?’ The car was the last in, and was goin’ out first. It was right there, next that oil-tank. I says: ‘No chance’. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘won’t you go and ask the boss? Won’t cost you nothin’.’ I looks at him. ‘No chance,’ I says, an’ then, sudden, surprisin’ myself, I gives in: I says: ‘But if you wants, why—I’ll go.’ So I leaves him.”
“Alone?”
His eyes burst at me. Then he remembered who I was. Pity controlled his eyes.
“I couldn’t tell, mister. Jesus!—how could I tell? The man looked all right. What we got to fear, usual, ’cept somethin’ lyin’ loose gets swiped? I wasn’t gone a minute.”
I felt sorry for him. I nodded.
“I come back. An’ he was standin’ there. His hat in his hand. A funny guy, he seemed then: like no mechanic. Sort o’ seemed I hadn’t seen him before. I tells him: ‘Nothin’ doin’.’ I wasn’t gone a minute. He nods. Puts on his hat. Lights out.”
“What did he look like?”
The man writhed in the effort of search and of articulation.