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But
no
one
hammered
the
downstairs
door
and
cried
,
"
In
the
name
of
the
law
!
"
"
Who
’
s
that
boy
down
there
?
"
"
Douglas
,
Douglas
Spaulding
!
Lord
,
he
’
s
come
to
ask
for
a
ride
in
our
Green
Machine
.
He
doesn
’
t
know
.
Our
pride
has
ruined
us
.
Pride
and
that
electrical
contraption
!
"
"
That
terrible
salesman
from
Gumport
Falls
.
It
’
s
his
fault
,
him
and
his
talking
.
"
Talking
,
talking
,
like
soft
rain
on
a
summer
roof
.
Suddenly
it
was
another
day
,
another
noon
.
They
sat
with
white
fans
and
dishes
of
cool
,
trembling
lime
Jell
-
O
on
their
arbored
porch
.
Out
of
the
blinding
glare
,
out
of
the
yellow
sun
,
glittering
,
splendid
as
a
prince
’
s
coach
.
.
.
THE
GREEN
MACHINE
!
It
glided
.
It
whispered
,
an
ocean
breeze
.
Delicate
as
maple
leaves
,
fresher
than
creek
water
,
it
purred
with
the
majesty
of
cats
prowling
the
noontide
.
In
the
machine
,
his
Panama
hat
afloat
in
Vaseline
above
his
ears
,
the
salesman
from
Gumport
Falls
!
The
machine
,
with
a
rubber
tread
,
soft
,
shrewd
,
whipped
up
their
scalded
white
sidewalk
,
whirred
to
the
lowest
porch
step
,
twirled
,
stopped
.
The
salesman
leaped
out
,
blocked
off
the
sun
with
his
Panama
.
In
this
small
shadow
,
his
smile
flashed
.
"
The
name
is
William
Tara
!
And
this
—
"
He
pinched
a
bulb
.
A
seal
barked
.
"
—
is
the
hem
!
"
He
lifted
black
satin
cushions
.
"
Storage
batteries
!
"
A
smell
of
lightning
blew
on
the
hot
air
.
"
Steering
lever
!
Foot
rest
!
Overhead
parasol
!
Here
,
in
tote
,
is
The
Green
Machine
!
"
In
the
dark
attic
the
ladies
shuddered
,
remembering
,
eyes
shut
.
