MISTER SANFORD CAMPBELL drove into a small， sad<br >Amoco station in New Canaan， Connecticut， and stopped so that<br >his gas tank was precisely before the regular pump. His car was a<br >recent Pontiac station wagon he had had painted Silver Cloud by<br >the Rolls people when new， in better times. A young attendant<br >came from the dark of the garage to serve him， wiping his mired<br >fingers on wool waste， in order not to soil the splendid fender. He<br >put the nozzle in the gas tank and started forward with a wet<br >squeegee in hand. "Yessir!" he called， alert to quality.<br > With an urgent smile， to avoid misunderstanding， Sandy thrust<br >his grey-blond-handsome-distinguished head out the window and<br >said， "Just a dollar s worth of the regular， please."<br > The squeegee stopped in the center of the windshield. Water<br >coursed down crookedly. "A dollar s worth of the regular?" The<br >boy s voice broke.<br > "Left mv wallet at home，" Sandy said engagingly.<br ><br >
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