"We'll get away with it," his companion commented.

Then followed some talk which Pee-wee could not hear, but he felt
certain that it was on their favorite topic of murder. Then he overheard
these dreadful, yet comparatively consoling words:

"Trouble with him is he always wants to kill; he's gun crazy. Take them
if you want to, but what's the use killing? That's what I said to him."

"Steal--"

"Oh sure, that's just what I told him," the speaker continued; "steal
up--"

"Step on it," the other interrupted, "we're out in the country now."

The big super six Hunkajunk car darted forward and Scout Harris could
hear the purring of the big engine as the machine sped along through the
solemn darkness. A momentary, cautious glimpse from under the big robe
showed him that they were already far from the familiar environs of
Bridgeboro, speeding along a lonely country road.

Now and then they whizzed past some dark farmhouse, or through some
village in which the law abiding citizens had gone to their beds.
Occasionally Pee-wee, peeking from beneath the robe, saw cheerful lights
shining in houses along the way and in his silent terror and
apprehension he fancied these filled with boy scouts in the full
enjoyment of scout freedom; scouts who were in no danger of being added
to some bloody list of dead ones.