"Well, 'tain't no use cryin' over spilled milk, as the feller says," he observed as he contemplated the ruin all about him.
"You're about cleaned out, Mr. Berry," said Winton. "Whose car is this? I never saw it before."
"That? Well, now, that belongs to a feller that left it here, oh, I dunno, mebbe close onto a week ago. I ain't seed him since. Said he'd be back for it nex' day. I ain't seed nothin' of 'im. I guess that's what you'd call a racer, now, hain't it?"
"What are you going to do about it?" Tom asked. "It was damaged when it came here, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it were. Well, now, I don't jes' know what I'd auter do. Jes' nothin', I guess."
"'Tisn't going to do it any good buried here in the mud," Tom said.
"Well, 'tain't my loss, ony six dollars storage."
"Let's give it the once over," Tom said, in a way of half interest. The efforts of the night had been so strenuous that his casual interest in the car was something in the form of relaxation. It interested him as whittling a stick might have interested him. "Take a squint into that pocket there, Roy."
There was nothing but a piece of cotton waste in the flap pocket of the door nearest Roy, but Gilbert Tyson's ransacking of the other one revealed some miscellaneous paraphernalia; there was a pair of motorist's gloves, a road map, a newspaper, and two letters.
"Here, I'll give you the light," said Roy, as Tyson handed these things to Tom.