"You, too!" Marc said, aghast. "Isn't anybody legitimate today?"
"I still think I ought to hide this can."
"Hide it by all means!" Marc agreed. "Remove all trace of it." He motioned toward the woods. "Drive it out there, where it will never be seen again."
Hotstuff, who had overheard this exchange, moved in confidentially. "Me and my pals are experts at obscurin' the evidence," he offered. "We could convert it into an icebox, so's they'd never know the difference."
The driver shook his head. "I think the woods are better," he said. He sighed. "Besides, I want to be off by myself for a while, where I can take a nap."
Toffee held out the bottle of champagne which was still half full. "Take this with you," she said. "You need it."
"I sure do, lady," the driver said gratefully, accepting the bottle. "I need every drop of it. I'm going to get so drunk I won't even know who I am."
At this point Mr. Busby, Marc's paunchy, genteel caretaker, tottered curiously down the steps and approached the bus with evident caution.
"'Afternoon, Mr. Pillsworth," he said uncertainly. "I see you brought along some—uh—guests."
"Why, yes, Busby," Marc said, with an attempt at nonchalance. "I brought them up for a little outing. A group of business associates and their wives."