He stopped the car and lifted the cushion on which he was sitting. Directly he pulled forth a long, tangled confusion of links, opened the door, and stepped forth. As he thrust out his head Mary Louise called:
"Haven't you any coat?" and his answer came back cheerily from the outside, "Never mind me. It'll all come out in the wash."
She looked at Claybrook reproachfully. He sat stolidly in the corner but there was a look of discomfort in his face.
"Don't want us to slide off one of these hills into the creek, do you?"
And she felt there was nothing more she could say.
They sat in awkward silence, listening to the downpour and the wind. The thunder crashed incessantly and the air was alive with the lightning playing about them in livid flares. They could feel one side of the car lift slightly as Joe adjusted the chain, and then the other side; could dimly hear him struggling with the wheel jack. It seemed criminal to be exposed to such a rain. A wave of cold resentment against Claybrook came over her and she sat staring straight in front of her, lips tightly compressed, waiting.
It seemed an interminable time; in reality, in about ten minutes Joe's head appeared at the door of the car and he climbed stiffly in. Drenched he was from top to toe. The water streaked down his checks in little streams; his clothes flapped and clung to him as though he had been flung into the river; his cap was a sodden, pulpy mass. But he chuckled as he slid over in behind the wheel.
"Guess I'll remember to bring my coat along next time."
She wanted to put her hand on his shoulder but she sat in stony silence. And she noticed that he no longer drove with the same care as before. She saw that he was giving little involuntary shivers, watched the water drip with silent monotony from his cap on to the back of the seat, making a slick, shiny spot there.
And then Claybrook broke the silence. "How will you split commission with me if I take one of these cars?" He spoke heartily, as though he wished to be friendly and cheerful.