Part 2: “Coals to Newcastle, bringing Mitford and me up here for a tertiary.”“You are very kind,”said Mitty. A huge, complicated machine, connected to the operating table, with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.“The new anaesthetizer is giving way!”shouted an interne.“There is no one in the East who knows how to fix it!” “Quiet, man!”said Mitty, in a low, cool voice. He sprang to the machine, which was now going pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep . He began fingering delicately a row of glistening dials. “Give me a fountain pen!” he snapped. Someone handed him a fountain pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the pen in its place.“That will hold for ten minutes,” he said.“Get on with the operation.” A nurse hurried over and whispered to Renshaw, and Mitty saw the man turn pale.“Coreopsis has set in,”said Renshaw nervously.“If you would take over, Mitty?”Mitty looked at him and at the craven figure of Benbow, who drank, and at the grave, uncertain faces of the two great specialists.“If you wish,” he said. They slipped a white gown on him; he adjusted a mask and drew on thin gloves; nurses handed him shining . . . “Back it up, Mac! Look out for that Buick!”Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes.“Wrong lane, Mac,”said the parking-lot attendant, looking at Mitty closely.“Gee. Yeh,” mutteredMitty. He began cautiously to back out of the lane marked “Exit Only.”“Leave her, sit there,”said the attendant.“I’ll put her away.”Mitty got out of the car.“Hey, better leave the key.”“Oh,”said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key. The attendant vaulted into the car, backed it up with insolent skill, and put it where it belonged. They’re so d*mn c*cky, thought Walter Mitty, walking along Main Street; they think they know everything. Once he had tried to take his chains off, outside New Milford, and he had got them wound around the axles. A man had had to come out in a wrecking car and unwind them, a young, grinning garageman. Since then Mrs. Mitty always made him drive to a garage to have the chains taken off. The next time, he thought, I’ll wear my right arm in a sling; they won’t grin at me then. I’ll have my right arm in a sling and they’ll see I couldn’t possibly take the chains off myself. He kicked at the slush on the sidewalk.“Overshoes,” he said to himself, and he began looking for a shoe store.