Three Speeds Forward
some man of about thirty, with heaps of reddish-brown hair, and wild gray eyes; tall and spare, with a musician look, and an aquiline nose. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, and held my breath.
"Might I not assist you?" he asked in a delightfully pleasant voice, raising his leather cap.
"Oh, thank you very much—it is nothing," I replied with what I considered the right degree of warmth to offset his courtesy, and yet give him no opening for a talk; and then, as he still stood there smiling, I added, in a please-go-away tone, "a broken porcelain; I'll have it right in a minute."
I was unprepared for his taking the plug out of my hand, which he did in the most matter-of-fact way, like a paid mechanic, and pulled out his knife to widen the points. He was as exasperatingly slow about it as though he had specially arrived from a garage in a trouble wagon.
"Why do all you people dislike me so
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