"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.
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