"I understand. Certainly no hard feelings...because you won't have occasion to lock me up."

"Glad to hear it. Any way I can help you, Son, just let me know."

"Thank you. Perhaps you can right now. Do you know of an outhouse a stranger might use? Or had I better try to hold it until I'm out of town and can find some bushes?"

The officer smiled. 'Oh, I think we can be that hospitable. The courthouse has a real city-type flush toilet-but it's not working. Let me think. Blacksmith down this way sometimes accommodates automobilists passing through. I'll walk down with you."

"That's mighty kind of you."

"Glad to. Better tell me your name."

"Ted Bronson."

The blacksmith was trimming a hoof on a young gelding. He looked up. "Hi, Deacon."

"Howdy, Tom. This young friend of mine, Ted Bronson, has a case of Kansas quickstep. Could he use your privy?"

The blacksmith looked Lazarus over. "Help yourself, Ted. Try not to go clear back to the harness section."

"Thank you, sir."

Lazarus followed the path behind the shop, was pleased to find that the privy had a door with no cracks and could be hooked from the inside. He got at the extra pocket hidden b the bib of his overalls, took out money.

Paper banknotes convincing in every detail; they were re stored replications of originals in the Museum of Ancient History in New Rome-"counterfeit" by definition but the restorations were so perfect that Lazarus would not hesitate to utter them in any bank-except for one thing: What dates did they carry?

He quickly shuffled the paper money into two packs: 1916 and earlier, and post-1916, then without hesitating or stopping to count, he shoved the usable banknotes into a pocket, tore page from the Montgomery Ward catalog in the cob box packaged the useless bills so that they would not be spotted as money, dropped the package into the cesspool. Then he go out coins still in that secret pocket, checked their dates.

He noted that most of them carried damning mint dates- these followed the paper money. He wasted a full second admiring a proof-perfect replica buffalo nickel-such a pretty thing! He gave sober thought, at least two seconds, to a massive twenty-dollar gold piece. Gold was gold; its value would not be diminished if he melted it down or pounded it into a shapeless lump. But it was a hazard until he could deface it, as the next town clown might not be as friendly as this one. Down it went.

He felt lighthearted then. "Queer" money was a serious offense here, good for a number of years in prisons unpleasant and difficult to escape from. But lack of money was a correctable nuisance. Lazarus had considered arriving with no money at all, then had compromised by taking enough for a few days, to let him look around, reorient, get used to the customs and the lingo again, before having to scratch for a living-he had never considered trying to fetch enough to last ten years.

Never mind, this was more fun-and good practice for the much harder job of tackling an era he had never known. Elizabethan England-that would be a real challenge.

He counted what he had left: three dollars and eighty-seven cents. Not bad.

The blacksmith said, "Thought you'd fallen in. Feel better?"

"Much better. Thanks a lot."

"Don't mention it. Deacon Ames says you claim to be a mechanic."

"I'm handy with tools."

"Ever work in a smithy?"

"Yes."

"Let me see your hands." Lazarus let his palms be inspected. The blacksmith said, "City feller."

Lazarus made no comment.

"Or maybe you got those soft hands in the cooler?"

"I suppose that could account for it. Thanks again for the use of your facilities."

"Wait a jiffy. Thirty cents an hour and you do what I tell you-and I may fire you after the first hour."

"Okay."

"Know anything about automobeels?"

"Some."

"See if you can get that Tin Lizzie moving." The smith jerked his head toward the far side of his shop.

Lazarus went outside, looked over the Ford Runabout he had noted there earlier. Its turtleback had been removed, and a wooden box had been fitted to convert it into a pickup truck. Its wheel spokes showed signs of muddy roads, but it appeared to be in fair condition. He removed the front seat, checked the gasoline with a dipstick he found there-half a tank. He checked the water, added some from the shop's pump, then opened the hood and inspected the engine.

The lead from magneto to coil box was not attached; he reconnected it.

He set the hand brake-decided that it was not very firm, so he blocked the wheels. Only then did he switch on ignition, open the throttle, and retard the spark.

He cautiously tucked his thumb by his fingers rather than around the crank-then brought the crank up high, pushed and spun it.

The motor racketed; the little car shook. He rushed to the driver's side of the car, reached in and advanced the spark three notches, and eased the throttle to idle.

The smith was watching. "All right, turn it off and come give me some wind on the forge." Neither of them mentioned the disconnected lead.

When the smith-Tom Heimenz-stopped to eat lunch, Lazarus walked two blocks to a grocery store he had passed, bought a quart of Grade-A raw milk-five cents, three cents deposit on the bottle-looked at a nickel loaf of bread, then decided to splurge on the big dime loaf; he had had no breakfast. He walked back to the blacksmith shop, and greatly enjoyed his lunch while he listened to Mr. Heimenz's opinions.

He was a Progressive-Republican, but this time time he was going to switch; Mr. Wilson had kept us out of war. "Not that he's done the country any good otherwise; the high cost of living is worse than ever-and besides that, he's pro-British. But that fool Hughes would have us in the European War overnight. It's a hard choice. I'd like to vote for La Follette, but they didn't have sense enough to nominate him. Germany's going to win, and he knows it-and we'd look pretty silly trying to pull England's chestnuts out of the fire."

Lazarus agreed solemnly.

Heimenz told "Ted" to show up at seven the next morning. But just before sundown, almost three dollars richer and his stomach well padded with sausage, cheese, and crackers, Lazarus was beyond the city-limits sign and moving west. He had nothing against the town or the blacksmith, but he had not risked this trip to spend ten years in a country town at thirty cents an hour. He intended to stir around, recapture the flavor of the time.

Besides, Heimenz had been too inquisitive. Lazarus had not minded the inspection of his hands or the suggestion that he might be fresh out of jail, and the disconnected wire was a standoff, but when Lazarus had parried a question about his accent with generalities the smith had tried to pin him down with just where in Indian Territory had he lived as a child and when did his folks come down from Canada.

A larger community meant fewer personal questions and more opportunities to lay hands on more than thirty cents an hour without quite stealing it.

He had been walking an hour when he came across a stranded automobilist, an old country doctor plagued with a flat tire on a Maxwell. Lazarus dismounted a coal-oil sidelight and had the physician hold it while he patched the tube, replaced the tire and pumped it up, then refused a tip.

Dr. Chaddock said, "Red, do you know how to drive these gas buggies?" Lazarus admitted that he did.

"Well, son, since you're headed west anyhow, what would you say to driving me to Lamar, then a shakedown on the couch in my waiting room, breakfast-and four bits to boot for your trouble?"

"I say Yes to all of it, Doctor-save that there's no need to waste cash on me. I'm not broke."