"Don't I know it!" Marc growled peevishly. "They don't run any lower than you two. At least you could have told me we needed gas. The sheriff will be catching up with us any minute now, and he'll probably string us up this time. He might forgive a little murder, but blowing up his jail is a serious matter."
Harold lapsed unconcernedly into discordant melody once more, but this time he was not joined by Toffee.
"We'd better get out of here," she said. "Let's hide in the house."
"We can't go there. It's full of cops."
"Well, at least we can hide in the woods."
"We'll have to," Marc nodded. "Drag that answer to a distiller's prayer out of there and let's go. I think those lights back there on the bend belong to the sheriff's car."
When they were safely in the woods, and Harold had been persuaded that his future would be more secure without melodic profanity ... even a rendition of "The Old Pine Tree," especially suited to the occasion ... Marc turned his attention to the road. The sheriff's car was already beside the delivery truck.
"What are they doing?" Toffee hissed.
"Searching the truck."