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He waved the paper I had written and the cheques. “This is just a little insurance.” He picked up the brandy bottle and refilled my glass. “You see, a friend of mine is going to trust you with something valuable.”
    “What?”
    “A car. You’re going to drive it to Istanbul. You’ll be paid a hundred bucks and expenses. That’s all there is to it.”
    I managed to smile. “If that’s all there is to it, I don’t see why you have to blackmail me. I would gladly do the job every week for that money.”
    He looked pained. “Who said anything about blackmail? I said insurance. This is a seven-thousand-dollar Lincoln, Arthur. Do you know what it’s worth now in Turkey?”
    “Fourteen thousand.”
    “Well then, isn’t it obvious? Supposing you drove it into the first garage you came to and sold it”
    “It wouldn’t be so easy.”
    “Arthur, you took a hell of a risk tonight for just three hundred dollars. For fourteen thousand you’d do pretty well anything, now wouldn’t you? Be your age!
    As it is, I don’t have to worry, and my friend doesn’t have to worry. As soon as I know the car’s delivered, this little confession will be torn up and the cheques’ll go back in my pocket.”
    I was silent. I didn’t believe a word he was saying and he knew it. He didn’t care. He was watching me, enjoying himself. “All right,” I said finally; “but there are just one or two questions I’d like to ask.”
    He nodded. “Sure there are. Only that’s the one condition there is on the job, Arthur - no questions.”
    I would have been surprised if he said anything else. “Very well. When do I start?”
    “Tomorrow. How long does it take to drive to Salonika?”
    “About six or seven hours.”
    “Let’s see. Tomorrow’s Tuesday. If you start about noon you can spend the night there. Then Wednesday night in Edirne. You should make Istanbul Thursday afternoon. That’ll be okay.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll tell you what you do. In the morning, you pack an overnight bag and come here by cab or streetcar. Be downstairs at ten.”
    “Where do I pick up the car?”
    “I’ll show you in the morning.”
    “Whatever you say.”
    He unbolted the door. “Good deal. Now take your junk and beat it. I have to get some sleep.”
    I put my belongings back in my pockets and went to the door.
    “Hey!”
    As I turned, something hit me in the chest and then fell at my feet.
    “You’ve forgotten your pass key,” he said.
    I picked it up and left. I didn’t say good night or anything. He didn’t notice. He was finishing his drink.
    The worst thing at school was being caned. There was a ritual about it. The master who had lost his temper with you would stop ranting, or, if it was one of the quiet ones, stop clenching his teeth, and say: “ Take a note to the Headmaster .” That meant you were for it. The note was always the same, Request permission to punish, followed by his initials; but he would always fold it twice before he gave it to you. You were not supposed to read it. I don’t know why; perhaps because they didn’t like having to ask for permission.
    Well, then you had to go and find The Bristle . Sometimes, of course, he would be in his study; but more often he would be taking the sixth form in trigonometry or Latin. That meant you had to go in and stand there until he decided to notice you. You would have to wait five or ten minutes sometimes; it depended on the mood he was in. He was a tall, thick man with a lot of black hair on the backs of his hands, and a purple face. He spoke very fast while he was teaching, and after a while little flecks of white stuff would gather at the corners of his mouth. When he was in a good mood, he would break off almost as soon as you came in and start making jokes. “A h, the good Simpson, or perhaps we should say the insufficiently good Simpson, what can we do for you ?” Whatever he said, the sixth form always rocked with laughter, because the more