"I think it's money poisoning," Toffee said dully.
"Well," George sighed, "now that I've set things right, I guess I might as well just relax and enjoy myself from now on. It's only four o'clock. That leaves me sixteen whole hours just to have fun. Until tomorrow noon. All's well that ends well, eh?"
Marc said a very singular and unprintable thing.
The driver turned and regarded Marc interestedly. "How come?" he asked. "You been blabbin' your head off and that's the first time you moved your lips. I been watchin' in the mirror. You a ventriloquist?"
"Yes," Toffee answered for Marc. "He throws his voice like crazy."
Apparently, the driver was not the sort to ask too many questions. He accepted the fact of Marc's voice tossing accomplishments on Toffee's say-so. And his attitude toward his customers instantly warmed. Confiding rather bashfully that he'd always thought of his own singing voice as something rather special, he burst into an unsolicited rendition of "Mexicali Rose" that had his helpless audience cringing in their seats. A truly ghastly moan issued from George's vicinity.
And it was a moan that Marc would certainly have echoed had he been able. He was wondering if a sort of plague of theatrical ambition had descended on all humanity. Thoughts of Julie and the imminent opening of "Love's Gone Winging" crept despairingly through his mind. He tried to console himself with the old bromide that things were always darkest before the dawn, but he couldn't help wondering where fate had stumbled onto this newer, darker shade of black and why the nights of misfortune had to be so interminably Alaskan.
Afterwards, it seemed to Marc that it was Toffee who suggested that they hide themselves in a movie theater. It seemed so, but Toffee stoutly denied it. But Marc's memory of that dark period was far too confused to be relied upon. Certainly, though, it was Toffee who invited the taxi driver along so that they might hide the money bags under the seat of the cab.
Once inside the theatre, it is doubtful that anyone, except Toffee, saw much of the film, and that young lady, having never attended a movie previously, was far too engrossed in the activities on the screen to notice anything else. To her, the gigantic reflections of racing vehicles and exploding firearms were a terribly personal matter. Mostly, she concerned herself with repeated attempts to gain the doubtful protection of Marc's lap.