“Phillips says our motor car is still in the shed, where it was put last night,” observed Chick.
“I heard him,” answered Patsy, from the depths of his coffee mug. “He says it is dirtier than when we came in.”
“Been used in the night.”
“We must have had dust on it when we got here,” suggested Patsy. “The road we covered wasn’t any polished hard-wood floor, Chick. Don’t forget that, old man!”
“I know. We had dust on everything when we rolled into the yard below. Only it happens that Phillips wiped it all off with cloths, a wet sponge, and chamois polisher,” returned Chick.
“Yes,” put in Phillips respectfully. “I knew the car would not run well if it were not cleaned. Besides, we expect to run into Penza to-day.”
“You mean, we did expect to do it,” remarked Patsy significantly.
“We shall do so,” said Chick, with a reproachful glance at his friend. “Unless you don’t feel inclined to go after the chief and bring him back in spite of anything and anybody.”
Patsy’s face worked convulsively and his eyes blazed. For a moment he was inclined to let fly at his fellow worker, much as he liked him.
He controlled himself, but the tones in which, the next instant, he addressed Chick, were as sharp and cold as zero-made icicles.