Soup licked his lips, gripped the stubby automatic in his sagging coat pocket, and went softly back to the platform of the Lake Louise. He felt sure that there would be more cold bottles; and he was not averse to taking most anything of value.
The telegraph instrument did not amuse Alicia for long. She was unable to decipher anything it said, because it clicked too fast; so she sank down in a deep, leather chair, picked up her book and began reading. The air off the desert was like a blast from a furnace. Two electric fans droned softly, but did little more than stir up the heat.
In his own end of the car, where an ice box and other luxuries of private-car life were carried, Moses Jones, an elongated, shuffling son of Ham, proceeded to uncork two more bottles. Mose was immaculate, but very moist.
Mose picked up his tray, containing glasses and the two cold bottles, stepped into the corridor just in time to feel the swift jab of Soup’s automatic into his white-clad ribs.
Mose almost telescoped under the strain, and he elevated his tray until the bottles almost hit the ceiling.
“Yuh—yuh—yessah!” grunted Mose.
“Yeah, bo!” replied Soup. “Squeak once and you’re done.”
“N-n-nosah,” whispered Mose.
“Yessir,” nodded Soup. “Move on, nigger.”