ager makes us wear when we sell a customer a quart of lube he doesn't need. Green Gold makes your motor smile. It plates the moving parts with oil.
"Good evening, Judge"—though Mottley wasn't a judge any more. He'd quit that job as soon as he learned enough about law to make a good thing of private practise. He was a precise fellow, with a squarish jaw and the sort of eye that puts no one at ease. He didn't stand for anything as vulgar as "Fill 'er up?" so I shot a quick look at the gage and said, "About twenty-two gallons, sir?"
He ate that up. What clicked with him was the time I said, "Twenty-three and a half," and hit it right on the head. That, plus my industry, energy, and perseverance in working my way through law school gave me an in with the judge. Which I needed plenty, as you will presently perceive.
"I do not need fuel. I do not need Green Gold," he answered. "Indeed, I do not need anything but a moment of your valuable time, Mr. Binns."
That meant me. I was too groggy to remove my smile or start polishing the windshield. I said, "Uh—um—uh."
The judge did not notice the interruption. "I am pausing," he said, after clearing his throat, "to tell you that you will not be employed by the firm of Mottley, Mottley, Bemis & Burton. Not even if you stand first in the final ratings."
He adjusted his glasses. "I refer to this matter of student riots. I saw you overturning the ticket-seller's booth in the Campus Theatre. I will not employ a law-breaker. Good evening, Mr. Binns."
Before I could explain that the riot was not really a riot, and just a boycott of the Campus Theatre, whose management would not give students special rates, the judge was gunning that big engine and making a precise shift into second.
Why pick on me? The ticket girl wasn't in the booth when I pushed it over. Anyway, the crowd inside did all the damage. They pulled up something like forty seats, and jerked the fire exit curtains from their rods before the cops arrived. But Judge Mottley had to see me, out in front about the time I saw the law and checked out.
I shut off the gas pump and hung on for support. It is tough, being fired from a job one has not yet gotten. Then the boss came roaring out of the office.
"Judge," he yelled. "Oh, Judge"
But Mottley was in high gear now, and not listening. Mr. Hill turned to me. "Eric, you jackass, if you insult another customer—by God, I'd fire you now if it wasn't for the prof's Packard—get busy and shine 'er up!"
I GOT busy, and he slammed the door. Judge Mottley had awakened him from a sound sleep and that always made him peevish. Maybe he would fire me, though if he did, he'd make a liar out of himself. I boarded at his house, and only because he'd signed a certificate stating I was a distant nephew.
The catch is, students can't live off the campus these days, except with relatives. Nobody seems to marvel at the number of chain store clerks, truck-drivers, and the like who have collegiate kinfolk. But that's the way it is.
The only ones who don't have devotees of learning in their families are tire boys who own the gin mills in East Palo Verde. That is another funny thing. Liquor can’t be sold in the limits of Palo Verde, so anyone with the price of a drink has to walk two miles to get one.
"Law, hell," I said to myself. Unless a fellow has good connections, he'll starve when he graduates. An LL.B can't be traded for a ham on rye anywhere in the state of California, which is an eleven hundred mile stretch of marvelous climate and nothing else.
