"If your aunt had you-know-whats she'd be your uncle," said Mrs. Goudeket tartly. "No remarks are required from you, Miss Elegant Loafer." Sharon laughed.
"Both wheels in the drainage ditch," McCue diagnosed, "and we seem to be hung up on the transmission."
"Can you get us out?" Mrs. Goudeket asked.
"No. But that truck's stopped. I guess we can get a ride."
Sam Zehedi laid his truck alongside the ditched sedan and got out. "Anybody hurt?" he called.
"We're okay, thank God," Mrs. Goudeket told him shakily. "But my driver tells me the car is through. Could you maybe give us a lift into Hebertown? We'll be okay from there."
Mickey Groff got out—soaked again!—and surveyed them. "You two ladies can fit in the cab with Mr. Zehedi here. The gentleman and I will ride in the back."
"Will you take these, please?" Sharon said, opening the rear door. "Put them in the back. Careful, that's a typewriter. And very careful with that one—it's manuscript. And these two are just clothes."
Groff wrenched open the double rear doors of the truck and put the four pieces of luggage inside. In the darkness there were crates and cartons. At least they'd be able to sit up instead of crouching on a metal floor. As the driver of the ditched car passed before the headlights he saw he was surprisingly young and obviously shaken by the accident. "Get in," he said. "It might be worse."
Mrs. Goudeket, puffing, pulled herself up the high running board of the truck and slid in beside Zehedi. Sharon followed, and slammed the door. The truck moved cautiously off.