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down. It reminded me of the hippopotamus on the banks of the old Shalamar.
The driver climbed out of the cab and asked me to take him to the main road, where he walked to a pay-phone. Then he came back and sat at the edge of the stream, chewing tobacco. Now and again he would get up and kick one of the tiros.
man arrived with a rescue vehicle. It had a drum winch on the front and two drop-down legs for gripping the ground, and was colored orange to match the truck in the mud.
No one spoke, and the rescue operation seemed to be a standard event. The man ran out a steel hawser, hooked it under the spinner, started the engine and slowly put tension on the winch. The supporting legs dug into the ground, the hawser hummed, George spun the eight wheels in reverse, churning up more hippopotamus mud. Then suddenly he was out, unhooked, free and happy. He walked toward the winch along one of the huge redbrown ruts in the grass.
When he reached us, the winchman said: “George Washington, if you get stuck once more today, I’ll leave you lay right where you be!”
After two hours
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