"I don't like this job."
Greg made haste to keep him busy. "Cover your radiator, and let the lap-robe hang down over the license number. Tie a rag over the rear license-plate. Let down the front window. Detach the meter and lay it on the floor."
"What's that for?"
"It'll be in our passenger's way on the ride home," said Greg grimly.
For nearly a minute before it hove in view they heard the approach of the crematory car through the night. He was driving her hard.
"It's a six," said Greg listening with a professional ear. "He's got a bum spark plug. She's running on five legs."
"I'm not the man for this job," moaned Hickey. "I'm sick!"
"Hide yourself behind the flivver. I'll call you when you're wanted."
Hickey obeyed this order with alacrity.
Finally the rays of the searchlight showed around the bend ahead, jigging up and down with the movement of the car. To Greg it seemed as if she would never turn the corner. His heart was beating like a pneumatic hammer. He clenched his hands to keep them from trembling. He had the dummy pistol in one.