He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a lucifer. Soon he was inhaling the smoke and talking rapidly.
"I'm so glad this is my last week here I feel like kicking my head off. Once I shake the dust of this dump off my tires, you can bet you'll never catch me here again. Say, do you know what this Main Street reminds me of? An avenue in Metairie Cemetery in New Orleans, with a row of white tombs on each side. I saw it last Christmas. They bury 'em aboveground there, too. The Rubes in this burg are just as dead, only they don't know it."
Drawing a final, long, luxurious whiff, he tossed the half-smoked cigarette away.
"Well, so long! My dad's coming on the five-ten to see his only son graduate cum laude. And me loaded down with conditions a truck-horse couldn't haul! Wouldn't that jar you? Guess I'll have to do my road-burning before he gets here. Hold a watch on me, will you? I'm out for the record."
"Careful, or you'll get pinched for over-speeding," cautioned Stevens.
Whittington spat contemptuously.
"Pinch your grandmother!" he jeered. "I've been pinched too many times to mind a little thing like that."
Off darted the gray car. The three gazed after it in silence. Then Spurling spoke.
"Must seem rather pleasant to have a bank-account you can't touch the bottom of, mustn't it? They say his father's all sorts of a millionaire. Hope he doesn't get smashed up or run over somebody."
"He's a good-natured fool," commented Lane. "But you can't help liking him, after all. Now let's get back to business."