Foster, he thought, must certainly be scared of his wife, if he
daren't show himself in this little rube town. For the first time
Bud had a vagrant suspicion that Foster had not told quite all
there was to tell about this trip. Bud wondered now if Foster was
not going to meet a "Jane" somewhere in the South. That
terrifying Mann Act would account for his caution much better
than would the business deal of which Foster had hinted.

Of course, Bud told himself while the waiter refilled his
coffee cup, it was none of his business what Foster had up his
sleeve. He wanted to get somewhere quickly and quietly, and Bud
was getting him there. That was all he need to consider. Warmed
and once more filled with a sense of well-being, Bud made
himself a cigarette before the lunch was ready, and with his arms
full of food he went out and across the street. 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
--"