A blue runabout chugged blithely along Troutman Street, in the town of Clearfield, one afternoon in mid-September, honking hoarse warnings at the intersections of other thoroughfares and rustling the yellow and russet leaves, which, because of an unprecedently early frost two nights before, had already sprinkled the pavement. In the car, clutching the wheel with an assumption of ease somewhat belied by the frequent frowns of anxiety which appeared on his face, sat the proud owner, Richard, or, as some of us already know him, Dick Lovering. Dick was seventeen years of age, tall, nice-looking, with dark eyes and hair and a lean face a trifle more pallid than one would expect on the driver of …
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