“Uh! Thought I remembered that face. They must o’ been watchin’ you pretty close in that poker game. Twenty-five dollars of any particular interest to you, Blacky?”
Blacky’s eyes widened. “I could place it maybe,” he evaded.
“Then pile in here and guide us across this infernal desert, if you know the way. Come on! Come on! Don’t stand there twistin’ that French chef’s can opener. I’m good for the cash.”
“I’ll say you are, Mr. Demarest,” said Blacky drawlingly, and climbed in at the driver’s side.
“Bust ’er, Charlie!” ordered the red-faced man. “Beat this wind or I’ll fire you.”
“Yes, sir, bossman,” said Charlie, throwing in the clutch.
“Shut up! Let your motor talk!”
The powerful machine leaped forward, kicked dust in Opaco’s already dirty face, rumbled across the bridge, and growled its way through the defile. Then it raced out on the open desert, and the wind shrieked with laughter over another victim.
“Great jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” yelled Demarest into the burning ear of his partner, Mr. Everett Spruce.
“What d’ye say?” bawled Spruce.