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one sold you that no-account fan belt the other day." He pulled some bills from a pocket and thrust them at E. C. "Fellow, you mind repeatin' that?" "That fan belt was a used one I took off a car. Surprised you didn't catch it, but you seemed in a big hurry—like you had other things on your mind." For the first time in a long while E. Cs face broke into a broad grin. "How far you reckon somebody'd get on that thing, Mr. Cates?" "My guess'd be no more'n fifty miles, give or take a little." Cates looked at him uneasily. "You got your money back, and I got a clear conscience, so I'll be moving along." He opened the door of his car and started to get in. "Now hold on, Mr. Cates." E. C. grabbed him by an arm and pulled him toward the porch. "Stay a minute, will you? I got a humdinger of a story to tell. It's 'bout the evening I was just sittin' here, minding my own business, when this angel came walking up that road. Least, I thought it was an angel ..." Rainy Morning, and Me With Täters to Dig I used to know lots of things to do with drowned plans. Sometimes I ate them on the back porch. Sometimes I wrapped them in plastic, and sent them floating on rising water. Sometimes I put them to bed with disappointment, and let the two battle until one had clearly been defeated. But today I am as indifferent as the gray, osmotic fog, slipping around, between, and over the puzzled glances in our house. —Charles Whitt 57 ...

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