"Oh," Toffee breathed embarrassedly. "So that's all it was!" She reached a hand to Marc's sleeve. "Maybe we ought to buy some of his ..." she shied away from the word, "that stuff. Just to make it up to him. It seems the least we can do." Marc nodded and turned to the old man. "Don't take it so hard, old timer," he said sympathetically. "You just made a sale the hard way." It was some time before Marc and Toffee emerged from the woods and started down the hill toward the car. Leaving the shadows of the great pines, they stepped into a path of shimmering bright moonlight. Over one shoulder, Marc carried an old-fashioned jug, and his face had rather a wooden look about it, though it was set in a blissful smile. Toffee moved loose-jointedly along at his side, softly singing a song about a girl named Lil who had suffered a rather devastating fall from grace at a shockingly early age. They moved lightly and silently down the hillside like a pair of enchanted shadows. It was just as they were approaching the car that Marc suddenly stopped and grasped Toffee's arm. "You hear voices?" he whispered thickly. Toffee leaned forward in a listening attitude. "I think so," she said, "but they may be in my head." She leaned forward again, and after a moment, nodded vigorously. A voice that sounded like a bucksaw drawn across a block of cement was coming from somewhere on the other side of the car. "I looked everywhere, Marge," it said, "but I ain't seen nothin'." "But I _hear_ it," a feminine voice replied. "It sounded like it's somewhere inside the car." The woman's voice was the perfect mate to the one that had spoken first; it was as husky as an acre of Iowa corn. "It's the most gruesome thing I've ever heard," the first voice continued. "What'll we do?" "Look again. Whatever it is, it must be sufferin' somethin' awful." The golden beam of a flashlight suddenly stretched out over the hood of the car, then moved back swiftly toward the interior. Marc started forward. "Company," he murmured happily. Then he called out; "Hello, there!" Two startled faces instantly appeared over the top of the car. They were quite distinct in the bright moonlight. One was large and hard looking, like a product of Bethlehem Steel. The other was small, but all the worse for hard wear. Surrounded by a mop of gauzy blond hair, its makeup had been ladled on by a hand that was more lavish than loving. The owner of the large, hard head was the first to speak. "Where did you come from?" he asked. "From heaven," Marc answered inanely. "That's what my folks said." "Holy smoke!" the man said, turning to his companion. "Marge! Look at that dame! She aint got nothin' on but a bunch of holes and a lot of skin!" "Watch your temperature, Pete," Marge replied menacingly. "Remember what happened when I caught you with that blonde in Des Moines?" * * * * *