“What’s the idea?” I said, angrily. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The driver turned in his seat. His face was the colour of a fish’s underbelly. “Hey!” he said in a trembling voice, “didn’t that dog speak?”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Get on with your driving, can’t you?”
“Now, wait a minute,” the rat-like eyes glared at me. “I’ve got to get this straight. Did that dog speak to me?”
“Well, what if he did? That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But dogs don’t talk. They bark, see?”
“Oh, I get it. Well, there’s nothing to worry about. He’s just that kind of a dog.”
“Well, if that’s all it is,” the driver said, relieved, and be began driving again.
“I thought you’d lost your voice,” I said to Whisky.
“So I did,” he growled, “and damned inconvenient it was too. I hope I never go back to barking again; you just don’t get anywhere like that. But, we’re wasting time, I know where Myra is.”