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even bother to strain my eyes to see ahead; I merely followed the line in the center of the road. After about an hour passed, and Haskell still rode in that same position, I thought he may be asleep. It startled me when he suddenly said, “Hey Detroit, have you got a stick of gum on you, by any chance?”
    “I'm sorry, Mr. Haskell, I haven't.”
    “My mouth feels so dry,” he grunted, shifting his position an inch or so. “Guess my stomach is upset a little. No wonder, with all these lousy restaurant meals.”
    “A shot of bi-car ought to fix you up, Mr. Haskell. What's the trouble? Didn't that steak go down right?”
    “Oh, I don't know. I've been feeling this way all afternoon. My tongue feels like a wad of paper. And water doesn't seem to do much good I've had gallons.”
    “How ill do you feel?” I asked, not that I gave a damn.
    “Eh? Oh, I guess I'm all right.”
    “Want to stop and see a doctor at the next town?”
    “Hell, no,” he grumbled. “It's not that bad. I guess I can wait until we get to Los Angeles. We should be there tomorrow afternoon—or tomorrow night if we stop over some place. The trouble is there's no place of any size to stop at between here and the coast, except Phoenix. We ought to be in there pretty soon.”
    “In about an hour, I guess. You want me to stop when we hit Phoenix?”
    “No. Keep going.”
    “O.K.”
    That suited me down to the ground. If he decided to stop over somewhere, I could count on a night spent walking around or sleeping in the car.
    “But if you pass a drug store anywhere along the line, stop. I want to buy some gum and put more iodine on these scratches. They sting like hell. There ought to be a law against women with sharp nails.”
    I felt like saying that was what he got for playing around. However, I had sense enough to keep my mouth shut. What business was it of mine if he tried to manhandle some dame?
    “I know how you must feel,” I remarked sympathetically. “I've been scratched like that lots of times myself. One time the gal I was sleeping with got so passionate she damned near ripped my back to pieces.”
    Another of my lies. Nothing like that had ever happened to me. I hear women do get like that now and then; but never one that I had out. It sounded good, though.
    “Well, it's the first time for me. And the last. God, females are unreasonable! One minute they love you and the next they're ready to tear your face to ribbons. Well, no woman can do that to me and expect me to forgive her. I put her out on her ear.”
    “That's the stuff,” I said.
    “I don't believe in babying them, like some men do. If they get out of line, slap them down. They'll respect you for it in the long run.” He paused and yawned. “Say, open that glove compartment and get out my cigarette-case, will you?”
    I felt around in there until I pulled out the long, silver case, thin as a dime.
    “Want me to light one for you, Mr. Haskell?”
    He opened his eyes in a jiffy. “No, no. That's all right. I'll light it myself.”
    He lit it and by the flare of the match I saw that his hands were trembling, although the night air was warm as toast. I figured he must have some sort of fever. I began praying he wouldn't ask me to put up the top and roll up the windows because I can't stand the smell of Egyptian tobacco. I don't mind it when I'm smoking it, understand; but when I'm not, it gets me in the stomach. A few drags on the cigarette, however, seemed to stop him shivering. He sat up.
    “Turn on the radio, Detroit. Let's have some music. Then maybe I'll forget I'm broke.”
    Broke? Broke my grandmother. What was this? Another one of his lousy gags?
    “I should be as broke as you are,” I said, trying to get a laugh into my voice, “every day in the week.” I turned the radio knob disgustedly and fiddled with the station selector.
    “Eh?” He looked round at me with that sleepy, amused expression an Englishman always has on his face when he's making love.