"Ah, quit your worrying," Foster grunted. "The trick's turned;
that's something."

Bud was under the impression that they were talking about
father-in-law, who had called Foster a careless hound; but
whether they were or not concerned him so little that his own
thoughts never flagged in their shuttle-weaving through his mind.
The mechanics of handling the big car and getting the best speed
out of her with the least effort and risk, the tearing away of
the last link of his past happiness and his grief; the feeling
that this night was the real parting between him and Marie, the
real stepping out into the future; the future itself, blank
beyond the end of this trip, these were quite enough to hold Bud
oblivious to the conversation of strangers.

At dawn they neared a little village. Through this particular
county the road was unpaved and muddy, and the car was a sight to
behold. The only clean spot was on the windshield, where Bud had
reached around once or twice with a handful of waste and cleaned
a place to see through. It was raining soddenly, steadily, as
though it always had rained and always would rain.

Bud turned his face slightly to one side. "How about stopping;
I'll have to feed her some oil--and it wouldn't hurt to fill
the gas tank again. These heavy roads eat up a lot of extra
power. What's her average mileage on a gallon, Foster?"

"How the deuce should I know?" Foster snapped, just coming out
of a doze.