t whirred gratefully; the clanking
stopped and she tried again. This time it chewed a handful of grass from
the edge, found it distasteful and quit once more.

"Anybody know how to make this damn thing work?" Mrs Dinkman asked
exasperatedly.

"Needs oil" was helpfully volunteered.

She retired into the garage and returned with a lopsided oilcan. "Oil
it," she commanded regally. The helpful one reluctantly pressed his
thumb against the wry bottom of the can, aiming the twisted spout at odd
parts of the mower. "I dunno," he commented.

"I don't either," said Mrs Dinkman. "You--Greener, Weener--whatever your
name is!"

There was no possibility of evasion. "Yes, mam?"

"You made this stuff grow; now you can cut it down."

Uncouth guffaws from the watching idiots.

"Mrs Dinkman, I--"

"Get behind that lawnmower, young man, if you don't want to be involved
in a lawsuit."

I wasnt afraid of such a consequence in itself, having at the moment
nothing to attach, but I thought of Miss Francis and future sales and
that impalpable thing known as "goodwill." "Yes, mam," I repeated.

I discarded pump and hose to move reluctantly toward the mower. Under my
feet I felt the springiness of the grass; was it pure fancy--or did it
truly differ in quality from the lawns I'd trod so indifferently the day
before?

I took the handle. If oiling had improved the machine, its previous
efficiency must have been slight. It went shakily over the first inch of
grass and then, as it had for Mrs Dinkman, it stopped for me.

By now the spectators had increased to a small crowd and their dull
humor had taken the form of cheerfully offering much gratuitous advice.
"Tie into it, Slim--build up the old muscle." "Back her up and take a
good run." "Go home an do some settinup exercises--come back next year."
"Got to put the old back behind it, Bud--give her the gas." "Need a
decent mower--no use trying to cut stuff like that with an antique."
"Yeah--get a good mower--one made since the Civil War." "No one around
here got an honestogod lawnmower?"

The last query evidently nettled local pride, for soon a blithe,
beamshouldered little man trundled up a shiny, rubbertired machine.
"Thisll do the business," he announced confidently as I relinquished the
spotlight to him with understandable readiness. "It's a regular
jimdandy."

It certainly was. The devilgrass came irreverently above the wheels and
flowed with graceful inquisitiveness over the