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Updated: June 20, 2025


There's nothing very magnificent, surely, in being the proprietor of a garage, even if it is the best-paying garage in Chippewa, where six out of ten families own a car, and summer tourists are as locusts turned beneficent. Some time between Chug's motorcycle and the home-made automobile Len Scaritt died. The loss to the household was social more than economic.

He dispatched the whole grimy business by the simple method of washing in gasoline guaranteed to take the varnish off a car fender. It seemed to leave Rudie's tough hide undevastated. At twenty-four Chug Scaritt was an upstanding, level-headed, and successful young fellow who worked hard all day and found himself restless and almost irritable toward evening.

Scaritt know that Chug was safe. He took his first mechanical toy apart, piece by piece. "Wait till your pa comes home!" his mother had said, with terrible significance. Chug, deep in the toy's wreckage, seemed undismayed, so Mrs. Scaritt gave him a light promissory slap and went on about her housework.

Politics, unions, world events, local happenings, neighbourhood gossip, all fed the endless stream of his loquacity. "Well, now, looka here. Take, f'rins'ance, one these here big concerns " After he was gone Mrs. Scaritt used to find herself listening to the silence.

Betty Weld, who no longer sat against the wall at the golf-club dances and prayed in her heart that fat old Oakley wasn't coming to ask her to dance. Betty Weld was so popular now that the hostess used to have to say to her, in a tactful aside, "My dear, you've danced three times this evening with the Scaritt boy. You know that's against the rules." Betty knew it. So did Chug.

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