Achilles found Philip Harris at luncheon¹, and waited for him to come back, and laid his plan before him.  
The millionaire listened, and nodded once or twice, and took up the receiver and gave an order. “He’ll be at your place every day,” he said to Achilles as he hung it up. “You tell him what you want—and let me know if there’s anything else—money—?” He looked at him.
 
But Achilles shook his head. “I got money,” he said quickly. “I get money—six—seven dollar—every day. I do good business!”
 
The millionaire smiled, a little bitterly. “I do good business, too; but it doesn’t seem to count much. Well—let me know—” He held out his hand and Achilles took it and hesitated and looked at the seamed red face that waited for him to go—then he went quietly out.
 
He would have liked to speak swift words of hope—they rode high in his heart—but something in the face put him off and he went out into the sunshine and walked fast. He looked far ahead as he went, smiling softly at his dream. And now and then a man passed him—and looked back and smiled too—a shrew, tolerant, grown-up smile.
 
At ten o’clock the next morning Philip Harris’s big touring car drew up in front of the striped awning²; it gave a little plaintive³ honk—and stood still. Achilles came to the door with swift look. He turned back to the shop. “I go,” he said to Alcibiades, and stepped across the pavement, and was off.
 
At two o’clock he returned to the shop, his face covered with big beads⁴ of perspiration⁵, his hat gone and his eyes shining—and, without a word, he went about the shop with his wonted air of swift-moving silence. But the next day he was off again, and the next; and Alcibiades grew accustomed to the long car slipping up and the straight, slim figure sliding into it and taking its place and disappearing down the street.
 
Where Achilles went on these excursions, or what he did, no one knew. Promptly⁶ at two each day he returned—always dishevelled and alert, but wearing a look of triumph that sat strangely on the quiet Greek reserve. It could not be said that Achilles strutted⁷ as he walked, but he had an air of confidence, as if he were seeing things—things far ahead—that were coming to him on the long road.
 
The boys could not make him out... and their loyalty⁸ would not let them question him. But one day Yaxis, resting on the parapet that overlooked the lake, his cart drawn⁹ a little to one side, his hat off and his face taking in the breeze, saw a strange sight. It was a wide roadway, and free of traffic, and Yaxis had turned his head and looked up and down its length. In the distance a car was coming—it was not speeding. It seemed coming on with little foolish movements—halting jerks and impatient honks¹⁰.... Yaxis’s eye rested on it bewildered—then it broke to a smile. Father was driving! The chauffeur¹¹, beside him, with folded arms and set face had washed his hands of all responsibility—and the face of the Greek was shining. The great machine swerved

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