Bill turns the car toward the Jamestown road and settles down to driving, while Rosie curls up in the other corner of the seat and watches him. They both wait for the other one to start talking. At last——
“Gee,” she says admiringly, “you sure go fast. You ought to be careful in the city. I got a cousin who was pinched yesterday.”
“Yeah? Never mind; I know the cop on this road. It ain’t so much the speed, it’s what they call reckless driving they pinch you for. If a fellow knows his business you can be pretty sure they leave him alone. They don’t care for no speed limits.”
“I guess you’re right,” says Rosie.
“Why not?” you ask. “You don’t have to hit me in the Adam’s apple, neither.” Ruthie does not answer, but looks out of the car with unmitigated scorn. Pull your arm away from her shoulder and sulk. The car bowls merrily over the rough road until it reaches the fence with the vines, and it shows no signs of slowing up. Rosie does not seem to notice, but Ruthie calls promptly from the back seat:
“It’s time to turn back.”
“Oh, yeah,” says Bill over his shoulder. He stops the car, pulls on the brake, and in a very business-like manner he puts his arm around Rosie and slumps down in the seat to a position where he can watch the sky without craning his neck. Ruthie waits a minute uncertainly, then turns away from you and stares with dignity at the fence and the field beyond it.
In the front seat the couple manage to find a comfortable position as close together as possible. You glance at them, then back at your own girl.
“What you so crabby about?” you ask, aggrieved. “I ain’t pulled any rough stuff. What do you think I am? You don’t have to be afraid.”