his opinions or his attitude toward them. He had started out the
most unsuspecting of men, and now he was making up for it by
suspecting Foster and Mert of being robbers and hypocrites and
potential murderers. He could readily imagine them shooting him
in the back of the head while he drove, if that would suit their
purpose, or if they thought that he suspected them.

He kept reviewing his performance in that garage. Had he really
intended to steal the car, he would not have had the nerve to
take the chances he had taken. He shivered when he recalled how
he had slid under the car when the owner came in. What if the man
had seen him or heard him? He would be in jail now, instead of
splashing along the highway many miles to the south. For that
matter, he was likely to land in jail, anyway, before he was done
with Foster, unless he did some pretty close figuring. Wherefore
he drove with one part of his brain, and with the other he
figured upon how he was going to get out of the mess himself--
and land Foster and Mert deep in the middle of it. For such was
his vengeful desire.

After an hour or so, when his stomach began to hint that it was
eating time for healthy men, he slowed down and turned his head
toward the tonneau. There they were, hunched down under the robe,
their heeds drawn into their collars like two turtles half asleep
on a mud bank.

"Say, how about some lunch?" he demanded. "Maybe you fellows can
get along on whisky and sandwiches, but I'm doing the work; and
if you notice, I've been doing it for about twelve hours now
without any let-up. There's a town ahead here a ways--"