Pete was immediately subdued. He fastened his eyes on Marc and carefully kept them there. By this time Marc and Toffee had reached the car and were moving toward the newcomers. The pair with the flashlight seemed to regard them with suspicion. "You hillbillies?" the man named Pete asked. It was the forlorn conversational effort of a subnormal personality. "Hah!" It was Marge who spoke up. "Just look at that dame, Pete. Does she make you think of hillbillies?" "She makes me think of a lot of things," Pete answered promptly. "Look, sister," Marge said, turning to Toffee. "You better clear outa here. You and me, we're goin' to tangle if you don't." "Just because the boy shows a little good taste?" Toffee asked archly. "He's got taste," Marge retorted, "like a mouth full of quinine." "That must be why he got mixed up with you," Toffee said sweetly. "I understand there are things written on washroom walls about dames like you." Marge made a small snarling noise, then lunged toward Toffee. "Oh, what a fresh babe!" she screamed. "I oughta belt you one. We'll just see how smart you are. I'll rip that sleezy dress right offa your back!" Toffee ducked quickly behind Marc. "You rip off this dress," she giggled, "and you'll see a whale of a lot more than how smart I am." That one stopped Marge cold. A naked redhead was bound to create more of a disturbance in Pete's life than just a fresh one dressed in lace. She was forced to content herself with only a murderous glare, but she put her all into it. Marc, who had been watching these developments with an air of detached amusement, stepped forward, removing Toffee's protection. "You're all upset," he said to Marge, lowering the jug from his shoulder. "Have some squeezin's." "Say," Marge drawled in a voice that was not altogether displeased, "are you tryin' to make a pass at me?" "It's liquor," Marc answered amiably. "It hits the spot." "Oh." Marge accepted the jug, tilted it and took a long, accomplished swallow. "Wow!" she gasped. "That stuff not only hits the spot, mister, it completely demolishes it. I bet my breath is radioactive." Marc took the jug from her and turned it over to Pete, who drank from it deeply, without so much as a tremor. When the jug was returned, Marc put it on the ground. "Say," he said, "you two were looking for something when we came along. Can we help? What was it?" "The owner of this here car," Pete said. "We can hear him snorin' in there, but I'm damned if we can find him." "I told you," Marge put in argumentatively. "That ain't nothin' human that's makin' that noise. Leastways, it ain't nothin' that would own a car." "You're nuts," Pete retorted. "That's somebody sleepin' in there." For a moment they paused and listened. George's snoring was swiftly building to a stirring crescendo. It sounded like a sawmill in mid-season. "Oh, that!" Marc laughed. "That's George. He's my ... uh ... my dog. I keep him locked in the back."