Casey returned him a pale, straight-lidded stare. The man's glance flickered and swung away. "Who wants to know?" Casey asked calmly. "Oh, you can call me Jim Cassidy. I just asked." He removed his pipe from his mouth and inspected it apathetically. "He's a friend of Bill Masters, garage man up at Lund. Know Bill?" "Any man says I don't, you can call 'im a liar." Casey also inspected his pipe. "Bought that car off'n Kenner," Casey added boldly. Getting into trouble, he discovered, carried almost the thrill of trying to keep out of it. "Yeah?" The self-styled Jim Cassidy looked at the Ford more attentively. "And contents?" Casey snorted. "What do you know about goats, if anything?" he asked mysteriously. Jim Cassidy eyed Casey sidelong through a silence. Then he brought his palm down flat on his thigh and laughed. "You pass," he stated, with a relieved sigh. "He's a dinger, ain't he?" "You know 'im, all right." Casey also laughed and put out his hand. "If you're a friend of Kenner's, shake hands with Casey Ryan! He's damned glad to meet yuh--an' you can ask anybody if that ain't the truth." After that the acquaintance progressed more smoothly. By the time Casey spread his bed close alongside the car--he knew just how much booze Jim Cassidy carried, just what Cassidy expected to make off the load, and a good many other bits of information of no particular use to Casey. A strange, inner excitement held Casey awake long after Jim Cassidy was asleep snoring. He lay looking up into the leafy branches of the sycamore beside him and watched a star slip slowly across an open space between the branches. Farther up the grove a hilarious group of young hikers sang snatches of songs to the uncertain accompaniment of a ukelele. A hundred feet away on his right, occasional cars went coasting past on the down grade, coming in off the desert, or climbed more slowly with motors working, on their way up from the valley below. The shifting brilliance from their headlights flicked the grove capriciously as they went by. Now and then a car stopped. One, a big, high-powered car with one dazzling spotlight swung into the narrow driveway and entered the grove. Casey lifted his head like a desert turtle and blinked curiously at the car as it eased past him a few feet and stopped. A gloved hand went out to the spotlight and turned it slowly, lighting the grove foot by foot and pausing to dwell upon each silent, parked car. Casey sat up in the blankets and waited. Luck, he told himself, was grinning at him from ear to ear. For this was Smiling Lou himself, and none other. He was alone,--a big, hungry, official fish searching the grove greedily. Casey swallowed a grin and tried to look scared. The light was slowly working around in his direction.