Achilles came to the door of the shop and looked out. A car had driven up to the sidewalk—a rough, racing¹ machine with open sides and big wheels—and the driver, a big man in a white cap and rough linen² suit, was beckoning³ to him with his hand. Achilles stepped across the walk, and stood by the machine with quiet, waiting face.  
The man looked him over, a little as if he owned him—“I want some fruit,” he said quickly, “—oranges—grapes—anything—?” His glance ran to the fruit on the stall. “Get me something quick—and don’t be all day—” His hand was fumbling⁴ for change.
 
“I get you best oranges,” said Achilles. He snapped open a paper bag and turned to the heaped-up fruit. Then his eye paused—a boy was breaking through the crowd—hatless, breathless—and calling him with swift gesture.
 
Achilles sprang forward. “What is it, Alcie?” His eye was searching the crowd, and his hand dropped to the boy’s shoulder.
 
“There they are!” gasped⁵ the boy. “There!”
 
Achilles’s eye gleamed—down the street, a little way off, a car was wheeling out from the curb⁶—gathering⁷ speed.
 
Achilles’s eyes flashed on it... and swept the crowd—and came back.
 
The man in the white cap by the curb was swearing softly. He leaped with two steps, from the panting car to the stall and began gathering up oranges. “Here—” he said. Then he wheeled—and saw the Greek fruit-dealer flashing off in a car—his car. “Here—you!” he shouted.
 
But Achilles gave no heed—and the boy, urging him on from behind, turned with swift smile—“He take your car—” he said, “he ne............