The Black Tiger

by Patrick O'Connor

Woody Hartford, seated upon a four-legged stool of uncertain design, examined the pieces of a carburetor that lay on a bench before him, and contemplated a problem of the nicest delicacy. The problem had nothing to do with the carburetor. Woody at seventeen could put that back together without even thinking of what he was doing. He'd cleaned and adjusted a score of them since he first started working at McNess Union Service Station, Hermosa Beach, California, two years ago