For that
matter, he was likely to land in jail, anyway, before he was done
with Foster, unless he did some pretty close figuring. Wherefore
he drove with one part of his brain, and with the other he
figured upon how he was going to get out of the mess himself--
and land Foster and Mert deep in the middle of it. For such was
his vengeful desire.
After an hour or so, when his stomach began to hint that it was
eating time for healthy men, he slowed down and turned his head
toward the tonneau. There they were, hunched down under the robe,
their heeds drawn into their collars like two turtles half asleep
on a mud bank.
"Say, how about some lunch?" he demanded. "Maybe you fellows can
get along on whisky and sandwiches, but I'm doing the work; and
if you notice, I've been doing it for about twelve hours now
without any let-up. There's a town ahead here a ways--"
"Drive around it, then," growled Foster, lifting his chin to
stare ahead through the fogged windshield. "We've got hot coffee
here, and there's plenty to eat. Enough for two meals. How far
have we come since we started?"
"Far enough to be called crazy if we go much farther without a
square meal," Bud snapped. Then he glanced at the rumpled
newspaper and added carelessly, "Anything new in the paper?"
"No!" Mert spoke up sharply.
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