Just before he
reached the car one of the thermos bottles started to slide down
under his elbow. Bud attempted to grip it against his ribs, but
the thing had developed a slipperiness that threatened the whole
load, so he stopped to rearrange his packages, and got an
irritated sentence or two from his passengers.
"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.
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