MISTER SANFORD CAMPBELL drove into a small， sad
Amoco station in New Canaan， Connecticut， and stopped so that
his gas tank was precisely before the regular pump. His car was a
recent Pontiac station wagon he had had painted Silver Cloud by
the Rolls people when new， in better times. A young attendant
came from the dark of the garage to serve him， wiping his mired
fingers on wool waste， in order not to soil the splendid fender. He
put the nozzle in the gas tank and started forward with a wet
squeegee in hand. \"Yessir!\" he called， alert to quality.
With an urgent smile， to avoid misunderstanding， Sandy thrust
his grey-blond-handsome-distinguished head out the window and
said， \"Just a dollar s worth of the regular， please.\"
The squeegee stopped in the center of the windshield. Water
coursed down crookedly. \"A dollar s worth of the regular?\" The
boy s voice broke.
\"Left mv wallet at home，\" Sandy said engagingly.
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