“He’s something, that Quiz,” Jerry said.
“He sure is,” Sandy said. “I kind of wish he were coming along.”
“Well,” Jerry said slowly, spinning the wheel to make the turn that would take them through the higher part of town lying between them and the highway, “Quiz would be okay if we were going to write a history about ore mines. But working in one? Nosirree!”
“I guess you’re right, Jerry. Give Quiz a week up there and he’d have the whole history of mining memorized, backward and for—”
“Oh, ho,” Jerry said, interrupting. “Do you see what I see?”
Sandy leaned forward. They were passing along Ridge Road, the finest street in town. A hundred yards ahead of them, in front of the March mansion, a big black Cadillac limousine was drawn up to the curb. A uniformed chauffeur held the rear door open while Mr. March got in. Standing on the curb, awaiting his turn, was Stanley Peperdine March.
“Shall we wave to the stinker?” Jerry asked with a grin.
“Might as well,” Sandy said. “No sense in holding a grudge.”
“Okay,” Jerry said, and as Old Faithful came abreast of the shining, expensive March car, he tooted the horn gaily and called out, “Hi-ya, Pepper, old sport.”
“Hi, Pepper,” Sandy yelled, and lifted his hand to wave. But Pepper March had looked up and stiffened when he heard Jerry’s voice. He stared straight at them both with open dislike, and then, as Sandy Steele raised his hand in greeting, Pepper March raised his to his nose and wiggled his fingers at both of them!