“Search,—for what?”
“Booze, for one thing,” said the lank young man. The other did not waste words.
It was evident from their manner they expected to find what they were hunting for. They walked about and punched our tires, darkly suspicious. We could not have felt more guilty if we had been concealing the entire annual output of Peoria. I heard Toby gasp, and knew she was wondering what Brattle St. would say.
“Where did you come from?” asked the sheriff.
“Benson,” we replied, mentioning the last town we had passed through.
“Ah!” Evidently a highly incriminating place to come from. They proceeded to examine our suit-cases thoroughly.
“I hate to search ladies,” said the sheriff, in brief apology, “but if ladies will smuggle booze into Pima County, it has to be done.”
At that moment his assistant caught sight of our knobby looking auto trunk.
“Ah!” Such a queer shaped trunk was beyond explanation. I handed over the keys in silence. They made a grim search, with no sign of unbending until they came to our funny little folding stove. Then the sheriff permitted a short smile to decorate his official expression, and I knew the worst was over. A moment later, the lank young man discovered our number-plate.
“Say! Are you from Massachusetts, lady?”