Pete was immediately subdued. He fastened his eyes on Marc and carefully kept them there. By this time Marc and Toffee had reached the car and were moving toward the newcomers. The pair with the flashlight seemed to regard them with suspicion.
"You hillbillies?" the man named Pete asked. It was the forlorn conversational effort of a subnormal personality.
"Hah!" It was Marge who spoke up. "Just look at that dame, Pete. Does she make you think of hillbillies?"
"She makes me think of a lot of things," Pete answered promptly.
"Look, sister," Marge said, turning to Toffee. "You better clear outa here. You and me, we're goin' to tangle if you don't."
"Just because the boy shows a little good taste?" Toffee asked archly.
"He's got taste," Marge retorted, "like a mouth full of quinine."
"That must be why he got mixed up with you," Toffee said sweetly. "I understand there are things written on washroom walls about dames like you."
Marge made a small snarling noise, then lunged toward Toffee. "Oh, what a fresh babe!" she screamed. "I oughta belt you one. We'll just see how smart you are. I'll rip that sleezy dress right offa your back!"