Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/264

 "So have you." Gaylord grinned back and ran his own hand over his cheek.

"Now I'm ashamed," Blake frowned and the dark handsome face stared broodingly down at him. "Forgive me?"

"I forgive you."

The dark outline of the trees cast deep shadows over the narrow road. The rain splattered quick and sharp on the windshield; the wipers, scratching crosswise across the glass, made a moaning sound going to and fro, trying to free the speckled crystal of the many stars that tried to rest on it.

Gaylord sat at Blake's side and his hand gently caressed the leg that moved. Up and down … up and down … giving life to the humming motor. A dirty splash of red muddy water arose before them. Gaylord jumped but the glass protected him. The wipers worked madly wiping the dirty windshield, clearing the view before him. Again there was a splash of melted rust. Again the thin blades of rubber scratched hurriedly. His eyes followed the lake-like road. The bumps, holes, like the narrow bumpy street he had seen somewhere … somewhere … where? Where? Where had he seen all this before. In memory he closed his eyes, heard a cab screaming to a stop, saw a man staggering … a horn, bumps … rough … sure; that was it … the two drunks and a cab. That too had frightened him and made him catch his breath.

"Bob?" he said softly.

"Yeah?"

"What did you do in New Orleans," Gaylord asked in a whisper.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Uh huh."

"I met a dame."

"What kind?"

"A drunken whore."

"Was she pretty?"

"So … so."

"Did she have carrot hair?"

"Have what?"

"Was her hair sort of orange color?"