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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby “But there‟s a garage right here,” objected Jordan. “I don‟t

want to get stalled in this baking heat.” Tom threw on both brakes impatiently, and we slid to an abrupt dusty stop under Wilson‟s sign. After a moment the proprietor emerged from the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car. “Let‟s have some gas!” cried Tom roughly. “What do you

think we stopped for—to admire the view?” “I‟m sick,” said Wilson without moving. “Been sick all

day.” “What‟s the matter?” “I‟m all run down.” “Well, shall I help myself?” Tom demanded. “You sounded

well enough on the phone.” With an effort Wilson left the shade and support of the

doorway and, breathing hard, unscrewed the cap of the tank. In the sunlight his face was green. “I didn‟t mean to interrupt your lunch,” he said. “But I need

money pretty bad, and I was wondering what you were going to do with your old car.” “How do you like this one?” inquired Tom. “I bought it last

week.” “It‟s a nice yellow one,” said Wilson, as he strained at the

handle. 162

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