“Mornin’! Git down all right?”
“Yes, thanks. Nothing the matter. Landed on purpose.”
“I see. Lookin’ fur anything special around hyar?”
The driver’s round, red face was the setting for a pair of small, green eyes encased in rolls of fat. He was dressed in greasy mechanic clothing and a battered felt hat. His companion was a gaunt man of middle age, boasting a drooping mustache and a melancholy look.
“I’m going to town to look for gas and oil and a place to sleep right now.”
“Climb in hyar, and I’ll take yuh t’ town,” offered the fat man, who seemed to be making a determined effort to be genial.
Without a word his companion uncoiled his long length and languidly transferred himself into the rear of the truck. He was dressed in a black shirt and dirty khaki trousers and his felt hat was in as decrepit a condition as the driver’s.
The Ford had barely turned around when the vanguard of the sightseers passed in two flivvers, both loaded to the guards with coatless men of all ages. They peered at Hemingwood with concentrated attention as they dashed by.
“I keep the garage hyar an’ I c’n let yuh have all the gas yuh want,” offered the driver.
“Well, I’ve made arrangements in advance with Mr. Mumford,” lied Hemingwood.