"Los An--" the stranger gurgled, still drinking.

"Yuma!" snapped Foster. "You shut up, Mert. I'm running this."

"Better--"

"Yuma. You hit the shortest trail for Yuma, Bud. I'm running
this."

Foster seemed distinctly out of humor. He told Mert again to
shut up, and Mert did so grumblingly, but somewhat diverted and
consoled, Bud fancied, by the sandwiches and coffee--and the
whisky too, he guessed. For presently there was an odor from the
uncorked bottle in the car.

Bud started and drove steadily on through the rain that never
ceased. The big car warmed his heart with its perfect
performance, its smooth, effortless speed, its ease of handling.
He had driven too long and too constantly to tire easily, and he
was almost tempted to settle down to sheer enjoyment in driving
such a car. Last night he had enjoyed it, but last night was not
to-day.

He wished he had not overheard so much, or else had overheard
more. He was inclined to regret his retreat from the acrimonious
voices as being premature. Just why was he a simp, for instance?
Was it because he thought Foster owned the car? Bud wondered
whether father-in-law had not bought it, after all. Now that he
began thinking from a different angle, he remembered that father-
in-law had behaved very much like the proud possessor of a new