oil in the car. What d'yah want--the speed limit through town?"

"Nah. Side streets, if you know any. They might get quick
action and telephone ahead."

"Leave it to me, brother."

Bud did not know for sure, never having been pursued; but it
seemed to him that a straightaway course down a main street where
other cars were scudding homeward would be the safest route,
because the simplest. He did not want any side streets in his, he
decided--and maybe run into a mess of street-improvement
litter, and have to back trail around it. He held the car to a
hurry-home pace that was well within the law, and worked into the
direct route to Hayward. He sensed that either Foster or his
friend turned frequently to look back through the square
celluloid window, but he did not pay much attention to them, for
the streets were greasy with wet, and not all drivers would equip
with four skid chains. Keeping sharp lookout for skidding cars
and unexpected pedestrians and street-car crossings and the like
fully occupied Bud.

For all that, an occasional mutter came unheeded to his ears,
the closed curtains preserving articulate sounds like room walls.

"He's all right," he heard Foster whisper once. "Better than if
he was in on it." He did not know that Foster was speaking of
him.

"--if he gets next," the friend mumbled.