“Probably just going out to get beers.”
Both boys looked doubtful. “Sure were tearing,” Everett said.
“I know a man—he goes with Lenore Bailey—that has a Jaguar and he goes about three times as fast as any old cops. That’s a hundred and fifty miles an hour, I guess.”
“You got any money on you?” Harry asked.
“Eighteen cents.”
“Want to pitch?”
Nora looked south on River Avenue, toward parallel rows of frame houses, and north toward a patch of “business” district, of small shops and service stations—a tailor and a florist, the Greek candy store and a used-car lot on which the autos stood in solid ranks with six-inch snow roofs. “I’m supposed to be slaving for old lady Bailey,” she said. “If she misses me, she’ll probably come out like a posse.”
“We could go down to the alley,” Harry suggested. “There’s some swept brick walk. And we’ll watch out for the old fizoo.”
To her surprise, Nora had increased her assets by nine cents when she saw the Bailey car come around the corner. Mrs. Bailey, a coat on and a scarf over her head, the Chloropack wiped away, was driving with one hand and leaning out to peer every which way, yelling, “Nora! Nora Conner!”
Harry grabbed the two pennies on the brick pavement. “Brother! Is she ever mad!”