With Hank snuggled beside him on the seat, Barry couldn't remember a happier hour in his life

"You see," he caroled happily, "here's where the heater goes. The radio here. And this is the aerial. And look at the fenders. Aren't they dillies?"

"Dillies, indeed," she agreed. "It has possibilities, as they say about houses, but there will be a great deal of work to do. An what," she asked, "is your intention regarding this so-called car once you have accomplished making it into a car, which seems doubtful to my dull mind?"

Barry folded up his drawings unhappily. It was useless, you couldn't make them see. But he'd show them yet, he would. He lurched out of his chair and regarded the large calendar on the inside of the back door with a calculating eye.

"Well," he said, "this is the 18th of October. Our Winter dance at school in son the last day of January, and I'm going to have her in shape for that."

"You mean that your infatuation for cars has become so deep that you are taking a Buick to a dance instead of a girl?"

Barry looked as scornful as it was possible for anyone with such a short nose to look. "I'm taking the Buick and a girl."

"Who?"

"Hank."

"Hank is short for what? And is there another name?"

"Henrietta, of course," said Barry with great patience. "Her last name is Martin and she lives in Westport. Anything else?" he inquired politely.

"Yes." His mother replied. "Why is it suddenly necessary to work yourself into a lather to achieve the well-nigh impossible; to furnish a chariot for this particular Cinderella?"

Barry inspected his fingernails. "Because," he said "Pete Williams has a model A and it has everything. It has a horn that plays 'How dry I am,' another horn that play 'The Volga Boatmen,' and one that just says 'Beep.' It's got a radio, heater, windshield defroster and seven raccoon tails and an American flag. It's smooth and it's sharp and Hank loves that car like it was her own."

"So you wish to produce something dreamier for her to love. But wouldn't it be more sensible to transfer her affections in some way to yourself? I'm sure you are more dependable than that thing in the backyard. After all, if a car breaks down, love can die quickly. Whereas if you break down, you inspire a solicitude that is allegedly akin to love."

"That's all too deep for me," said Barry simply. "All I know is that 'that thing in the backyard' is going to be something out of this world when I get done. And Hank is going to fall for it like a tree in a windstorm."

In the time that followed, there was a great deal of grease on the bathroom towels and under Barry's fingernails. There was very little homework of an academic nature and there was an unwanted amount of social life in the Whitney's backyard. Nearly every day one or more of Barry's cronies would drive into the yard with bales of sheet metal or stacks of outsize tires stowed in the backs of their jalopies and the thumpings and hammerings from the vicinity of the garage were constant and determined.

Finally, the day of the dance arrived and, with his chariot panting to play Cupid in all its fire-engine glory, Barry put the finishing touches on himself. Slicking his hair carefully over his head, he stared benignly at the reflection that stared benignly at him. Satisfied at last that he was a fitly handsome pilot for his handsome car, he stumbled down the kitchen stairs and out the back door. He found his mother standing beside the dreamboat, inspecting it curiously.

"Nice," she admitted. "But what about a windshield? Won't it be drafty?"

"Couldn't get one," Barry said briefly. "But it's all right. I'm taking a couple of blankets. Besides, the heater works."

"Yes, but what chance does it have against all outdoors?" Mrs. Whitney inquired.

Barry ignored that one and with an airy, "Guess I'll blow," heaved himself into the homemade seat.

"All right," his mother said. "But, Barry, call me when you get to Hank's. Just so I'll know. You can reverse charges."

It was two full hours before Barry got a chance to call his mother and when he did, he had all he could do to keep his grief from showing. Everything had gone so beautifully. The dreamboat had actually survived the trip to Westport. With some minor delays, to be sure, but that didn't worry him. What really fouled up the situation was that he found Pete Williams, minus his car, true, but complete with sardonic eye, at Hank's, ready and willing to horn in on Barry's date.

"Pete's going to ride over with us," Hank explained. "He's loaned his car to his brother for the night."

"Oh, fine," was the best that Barry could muster. Then he went to call his mother.

"Mom," Barry said, trying to concentrate on things to be happy about, "I made it. I'm here and we're leaving for the dance. An Mom," he added in a sibilant whisper, "she thinks the dreamboat is wonderful!"

"But what took you so long?" Mrs. Whitney wailed. "It's only a half-hour's drive over there and you've been gone two whole hours!"

"Flat tires," Barry said loftily. "Nothing much really. Had six."

Six flat tires," is mother said weakly. "But Barry, there are only four wheels on the car!"

"I know," he replied "Two went flat twice. Look, Mom, I gotta go now."

"All right, dear," she said. "Thanks for calling and I hope you won't have any more trouble."

But his mother's hope didn't even begin to be a reality. His car died just exactly halfway between Westport and New Canaan at half-past nine that night, and not even the knowing and loving surgical hands that Barry applied could bring it back to life.

What Barry would have, in a lighter moment, termed "the snafu" would have been hard enough to bear under normal circumstances, but with Pete Williams - the proud possessor of a car that ran - in tow, his tongue all too ready with venomous barbs, it was hideous in the extreme.

"Ah, why don't you get a horse," Pete said bitingly, while Barry was still messing hopefully under the hook. "Or a bicycle built for three. At least we'd get somewhere."

Barry was quite beyond answering him.

After three-quarters of an hour during which every iota of his mechanical knowledge had been tried and had failed, Barry knew himself to be a ruined man.

"Hank," he said regretfully, "gee, I'm sorry. But why don't you and Pete go on to the dance? You can hook a ride, maybe, and I'll come along later if I can get this thing started."

"Good idea," Pete said with such complaisance that Barry wondered briefly if Pete could possibly have engineered the breakdown. "Best idea you've had, my lad," he added, and, turning to Hank, he said, "Come on, Hank. Leave us get going."

Something tightened around Barry's heart as he watched Hank's mouth forming words to reply. If she hadn't looked so lovely in her new white evening dress; if she hadn't had such a breathtakingly soft, red mouth with which to say what he knew she had to say, it wouldn't have been so hard for Barry. But she did and it was. And for the second before she spoke Barry felt he could not watch her face as she said it. So he turned away.