Just why he had said it he did not know. It was an impulse, but a sensible one. He intended to buy the gas of Mumford because of the girl, and he might as well avoid antagonizing anyone in East Point if he could.
The driver grunted. He was plainly disappointed.
“Gettin’ right out?” he enquired.
“No, I’ll be here several days.”
The man glanced at him quickly, and the flyer felt instinctively that the man behind him was staring at him steadily and listening closely.
“What fur?”
The forthright question was like a blow.
“I was sent here to take a lot of pictures from the air,” Hemingwood explained.
He felt the tenseness in the atmosphere, and was well aware of the attitude of mountaineers regarding any stranger, particularly a Government man. Consequently he went to some pains to describe his mission exactly. Apparently he did not satisfy the fat garage man entirely, though. Hemingwood was somewhat puzzled. It would have been more explainable if the man had been a mountaineer. Perhaps he was, and had graduated into a business in town. No reason why a man couldn’t make moonshine just because he lived in town, either, he reflected.
Several more cars passed them, all filled with passengers. Three men on horseback and two buckboards were included in the procession. When they turned into the wide dirt street of East Point there were knots of people, mostly women, talking on the sidewalks. They were plainly curious, and Hemingwood was the target for severe inspection and several pointing fingers.