"Giving yourself away like that! Why couldn't you fake up a mileage?
Everybody lies or guesses about the gas--"
"Aw, what's the difference? The simp ain't next to anything. He thinks I
own it."
"Well, don't make the mistake of thinking he's a sheep. Once he--"
Bud suddenly remembered that he wanted something more from the
restaurant, and returned forth-with, slipping thermos bottle and all. He
bought two packages of chewing gum to while away the time when he could
not handily smoke, and when he returned to the car he went muttering
disapproving remarks about the rain and the mud and the bottles. He
poked his head under the front curtain and into a glum silence. The two
men leaned back into the two corners of the wide seat, with their heads
drawn down into their coat collars and their hands thrust under the
robe. Foster reached forward and took a thermos bottle, his partner
seized another.
"Say, you might get us a bottle of good whisky, too," said Foster,
holding out a small gold piece between his gloved thumb and finger. "Be
quick about it though--we want to be traveling. Lord, it's cold!"
Bud went into a saloon a few doors up the street, and was back presently
with the bottle and the change. There being nothing more to detain them
there, he kicked some of the mud off his feet, scraped off the rest
on the edge of the running board and climbed in, fastening the curtain
against the storm. "Lovely weather," he grunted sarcastically. "Straight
on to Bakersfield, huh?"
There was a minute of silence save for the gurgling of liquid running
out of a bottle into an eager mouth. Bud laid an arm along the back of
his seat and waited, his head turned toward them. "Where are you fellows
going, anyway?" he asked impatiently.
"Los An--" the stranger gurgled, still drinking.
"Yuma!" snapped Foster. "You shut up, Mert. I'm running this."
"Better--"
"Yuma. You hit the shortest trail for Yuma, Bud. I'm running this."
Foster seemed distinctly out of humor. He told Mert again to shut up,
and Mert did so grumblingly, but somewhat diverted and consoled, Bud
fancied, by the sandwiches and coffee--and the whisky too, he guessed.
For presently there was an odor from the uncorked bottle in the car.
Bud started and drove steadily on through the rain that never ceased.
The big car warmed his heart with its perfect performance, its smooth,
effortless speed, its ease of handling. He had driven too long and too
constantly to tire easily, and he was almost tempted to settle down to
sheer enjoyment in driving such a car. Last night he had enjoyed it, but
last night was not to-day.
He wished he had not overheard so much, or else had overheard more. He
was inclined to regret his retreat from the acrimonious voices as being
premature. Just why was he a simp, for instance? Was it because he
thought Foster owned the car? Bud wondered whether father-in-law had not
bought it, after all. Now that he began thinking from a different angle,
he remembered that father-in-law had behaved very much like the proud
possessor of a new car. It really did not look plausible that he would
come out in the drizzle to see if Foster's car was safely locked in for
the night. There had been, too, a fussy fastidiousness in the way the
robe had been folded and hung over the rail. No man would do that for
some other man's property, unless he was paid for it.