Starling, when he thus discoursed, sat chiefly in the little office before the rusty stove, idly flicking his memory with a buggy whip from the rack above his head, where reposed a dozen choice whips soon to become mere museum pieces.
Wilbur's connection with this thriving establishment was both profitable and entertaining.

Judge Penniman divined the truth of it.
"He don't work--he just plays!" He played with disordered motors and unerringly put them right.

But he seemed to lack steadiness of purpose.

He would leave an ailing car to help out Sam Pickering, or he would leave for a round of golf with Sharon Whipple, Sharon complaining that other people were nothing but doggoned golf lawyers; and he would insist upon time off at three o'clock each afternoon to give Spike Brennon his work-out.

Spike had laboured to develop other talent in Newbern, but with ill success.