She did. He copied it down with the license number. "Sign," he said, and she did. Mr. Cioni copied the data onto another sheet, signed it and carefully put the original chit in his pocket. He gave her his copy. "This is your trip ticket," he said. "In case you get stopped by a state trooper, this proves you didn't steal the car. We hope." Now garrulous, he added: "She's yours. I don't know if this is legal, but it makes sense, doesn't it? At least we got records. After things are straightened out I guess somebody'll get in touch with you to return the car." She misread his fatigue and his nerves as suspicion. She said haughtily, "Young fella, at Goudeket's Green Acres we have a fleet of late-model cars and station wagons. And to be very frank with you, if a guest should drive up in a forty-seven car in this condition, the room clerk would discover that his reservation had not been received, believe me." Almost she believed it, in the heat of the moment. Almost Goudeket's Green Acres was the Concord or the Grossinger's they had meant it for. The aspersion passed clean through the weary ears of Mr. Cioni. "I guess that's right," he said. "Good luck." "Please, you should give me a half a tank of gas. Mr. Brayer said so." She looked pointedly at the stack of jerry cans that had been dumped by one of the quartermaster trucks. Mr. Cioni wearily climbed into the car, snapped on the dash light and turned the key. The gas needle stayed on zero. Mrs. Goudeket inhaled triumphantly. He banged the dial with the heel of his hand and watched it creep joltingly up to the halfway mark. He said to nobody, "I know these babies." He said to Mrs. Goudeket, "You got your half a tank. Good luck." She said, "Watch nobody else takes my car, will you? I'll get my friends." Her feet were killing her. Across the street, back into the schoolhouse, up the stairs. * * * * * She hiked wearily into the deserted "quiet ward," where Polly Chesbro was sprawled on one stained cot and Dick McCue, looking like the returned stray cat he was, on another. She shook him gently. "Your face better, Dick?" He sneered experimentally. "I guess so." He yawned, and that did hurt; but not too much. "I thought maybe it was a broken bone, but it just hurts on the skin now. I'll live." He was feeling pretty cheerful. The disappointing parts of his Rout of the Drunken Beast were dropping out of his recollection. He said, "Did you get the car, Mrs. G.?"