Bud suddenly remembered that he wanted something more from the
restaurant, and returned forth-with, slipping thermos bottle and
all. He bought two packages of chewing gum to while away the time
when he could not handily smoke, and when he returned to the car
he went muttering disapproving remarks about the rain and the mud
and the bottles. He poked his head under the front curtain and
into a glum silence. The two men leaned back into the two corners
of the wide seat, with their heads drawn down into their coat
collars and their hands thrust under the robe. Foster reached
forward and took a thermos bottle, his partner seized another.

"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.