Read Online Harold and Maude by Colin Higgins - Free Book Online Page A

He looked in the back of the truck. “Is this your shovel?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” said Maude.
    The cop threw down the shovel. “Possession of a stolen shovel,” he noted.
    â€œOfficer,” said Maude, “I can explain. You see—”
    â€œLady, you don’t seem to realize. Resisting arrest is a serious criminal offense. Under the state penal code, section one forty-eight, paragraph ten—”
    â€œOh, don’t get officious,” said Maude, interrupting him. “You’re not yourself when you’re officious. But then, that’s the curse of a government job.”
    The cop stared at her for a long count. He adjusted his stance. “Lady,” he said patiently, “is it true you are driving without a license?”
    â€œCheck,” said Maude, equally patiently.
    â€œAnd that truck. Is it registered in your name?”
    â€œOh! Not in my name.”
    â€œThen whose name is it registered in?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know. Do you know, Harold?”
    Harold didn’t know.
    â€œWhere are the papers?” asked the cop.
    â€œI suppose they are in the truck. Uh, are you going to take a lot of time with this?”
    â€œWait here,” said the cop, and climbed into the front seat.
    â€œBecause if you are—”
    â€œLady! For Pete’s sake. Be quiet.”
    The cop opened the glove compartment and began looking through the papers. Suddenly he heard the start of an engine. He looked up. Maude was on the motorcycle, revving it up and motioning Harold to jump on behind her.
    â€œGet the shovel!” she cried.
    Harold hesitated. The cop was sliding himself out of the front seat. Harold grabbed the shovel, climbed on the bike, and Maude shot off down the road in a cloud of dust.
    The cop took out his gun. “Stop! Stop! Or I’ll shoot,” he cried.
    He fired several shots after them.
    Maude began defensive zigzag maneuvering. “This is just like the Resistance,” she shouted back to Harold.
    The cop watched them disappear over the hill. He raced to the truck and climbed inside to start it. He banged his fist on the dashboard. Maude had taken the keys.
    I T WAS EARLY EVENING by the time Maude drove up in front of Glaucus’ studio and parked. Harold helped her off the bike.
    â€œMy, those motorcycles are awfully chilly,” she said, laughing. “But aren’t they fun!”
    â€œWhat are you going to do with it?” asked Harold.
    â€œI don’t know. I’m going down to the ships tomorrow to say good-by to some friends. Would you like to come?”
    â€œThanks, but I can’t. I have to work on my car. Maybe we could get together the day after.”
    â€œSplendid,” said Maude. “We’ll have a picnic.”
    They opened the door to the studio and went inside.
    Old Glaucus, bundled up in his winter clothes, was valiantly fighting off sleep. He staggered toward the diminishing block of ice, lifted his heavy hammer and chisel, and struck a blow. He turned around and shuffled back to look at its effect. All the time he mumbled snatches of Homer for encouragement.
    â€œâ€˜The bitter dregs of Fortune’s cup to drain.’—Iliad…. Almost finished…. Gotta make it…. Going to make it…. Liberate Love…. Set her free.”
    â€œGood evening, Glaucus,” said Maude.
    â€œWe’ve brought back your shovel,” said Harold. Glaucus looked at them vaguely. “Shovel? ‘Shovel the fires till one falls, wrapt in the cold embraces of the tomb!’ Excuse me. I must turn up the heat.” He faltered over to the thermostat, and turned it up full.
    He came back to the ice. “Create.” He sighed. “‘Verily these issues lie in the lap of the gods.’” He collapsed in a nearby chair. “Just going to sit down for a minute,” he muttered. “Won’t even shut my eyes.”
    Harold looked