For a moment they paused and listened. George's snoring was swiftly building to a stirring crescendo. It sounded like a sawmill in mid-season.
"Oh, that!" Marc laughed. "That's George. He's my ... uh ... my dog. I keep him locked in the back."
"You mean this here is yore car?" Pete asked.
"Sure," Marc patted the car fondly. "All mine."
Pete glanced at Marge. "Shall we do it?"
"Yeah," Marge said, helping herself to the jug. "We ain't got all night."
Marc and Toffee watched interestedly as Pete wedged an immense hand into his coat pocket and set it into a complicated series of fumbling motions. Presently, the hand seemed to locate what it was searching for and emerged once more into the bright moon light. It was holding a gun.
"Put up your hands," Pete growled, "before I blow your heads off." Then he glanced at Marge uncertainly. "Is that right?" he asked.
The blonde nodded. "You could put more guts into it, maybe, but it'll do in this case."