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stimulant, and probably an intoxicant. Must lay off bitters for a while. What are bitters? Who are they? That all our swains command it?
    He searched his pockets and found a crumpled ball of paper. He smoothed it on the bar.

    Neats ft. oil
    ? He remembered: Dave had adopted another dog, a long-haired red mutt. A total of four now. And neat’s foot oil. Baseball gloves. What is a neat? Like a gnat? Like a nit? Like a knot? Like a net? Like a newt? Like a nate? Not like a nate; I hope not. Like a knight? Like a note? Like a naught? Like a knout? Why can’t she do this? No neateries in the neighborhood?
    â€œHarold,” he said. “Just one more. No bitters. A drop of neat’s foot oil.”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œAnother.” Harrison dropped a five-dollar bill on the bar.
    Harold served him.
    â€œHarold,” Harrison said, “are you a good man?”
    â€œAm I what?” Harold looked worried.
    â€œA good man. Do you dream of the perfect Sazerac?”
    â€œI don’t drink,” Harold said.
    â€œBeside the point. Have you ever invented a new drink? Intoxicated a barful of men in twenty minutes?”
    â€œWe try to keep them sober,” Harold said. “Sometimes it takes a good man to do that.”
    Harrison laughed. “Good. Your point, sir, is well taken. I may speak for my colleagues in saying that there is no one on this bank who would dare contradict you. Are you surrounded by incompetents? Do you know that the word ‘nincompoop’ comes from incompetent?”
    â€œThere’s Larry,” Harold said. “He cleans up. He’s pretty sloppy.”
    â€œLarry. Yes,” Harrison said. “I too have a Larry who cleans up. Not sloppy though. Oh, no. What is a neat?”
    â€œA neat?” Harold shook his head. “I don’t know.”
    â€œI advise you to find out,” Harrison said. “These are complex times. Important decisions hang on hairs.”
    â€œYessir,” Harold said. He took the bill and brought change.
    â€œThis will hold me,” Harrison said. “In forty minutes, with luck, I’ll be home, bearingand neat. Thank you, Harold. You have sustained me through a rare moment of weakness.”
    He left Harold a half dollar and walked away, steadily, firmly, happily.
    He was off the twenty-mile stretch of highway when the third drink took hold. Some of the taste backed up in his mouth. He swallowed twice. This part of the drive, in an open car, was best. The highway followed the ridge, and now he had a long descent, five miles of slow wheeling along curved roads, through purple hills and sloped, checkerboard farmland. One town, Ashford, halfway along, and the rest was more like flight than driving.
    He tried the radio. News, guitars, chanteuses with personality, an advertisement for a laxative, the genteel words, the friendly voice. He turned it off. He passed estates, farms, barns, flocks of sheep, station wagons in the driveways. To his right was the setting sun; to his left a run of color on a hillside: yellow-green to blue-green to an almost bright purple.
    He was relaxing now, readying himself for the onslaught of children, for the excitement of his wife. He let himself slide gently forward in the seat. He was approaching Ashford. Population 2,500; one mill; farms and stores; no smog. Homes: $6,000 up. Back yards, children, chickens. Dogs. A movie. Probably a homemade still somewhere. Probably a town drunk. Speed limit 35 m.p.h. Harrison was at 55, as usual; he had never been stopped. He breezed down the hill toward the one intersection, an intersection he liked, too good to believe: Main Street and Lewis Avenue. The green light was with him. The green light was always with him, he reflected; his had been that kind of life. He set a cigarette between his lips and pressed on the lighter. Cop on the corner; woman with groceries; old man sitting on doorstep; workman with lunchbox, corduroy pants. He withdrew