And like three specters, freshly risen from the grave, they filed silently out into the cool quietness of the night. Toffee looked back sadly. "It wasn't such a bad little jail," she said with becoming sentiment. "No, it wasn't," Harold agreed thickly. "I've been in a lot worse." * * * * * Marc at the wheel, the delivery truck sped down the silvery, moonlit highway, heralding to a slumbering countryside that the services of Harold J. Jenks could be obtained by the very simple operation of calling 23-J. This lie was blatantly blazoned on the side of the vehicle in impressive gilt letters. As for Harold J. Jenks, himself, far from standing ready to rush to the aid of housewives in moist distress, he was, at the moment, behind those very letters in the company of Toffee and an assortment of suspicious looking bottles, and caroling at the top of his lungs. The two of them, joined together in absolute discord, were engaged in a frightful recital of bawdy ballads, each new selection seeming to rival its forerunner for sheer obscenity. Marc, long since giving up any hope of restraining this wild party, tried merely not to listen to it. And things might have gone on in this disquieting fashion all night if the truck hadn't unexpectedly coughed, sputtered, then lavished its last gasp on an asthmatic halt. "What's the matter?" Toffee asked, dropping out of the current vocal massacre long enough to peer owlishly over the back of the seat. "Why stop?" "We're out of gas," Marc replied. And it was a curse. "Where are we?" Harold muttered weakly from the darker reaches of the merchandise compartment. "Is there any liquor nearby?" Marc thrust his head out of the window, then drew it slowly back. "We're opposite the beach house," he replied disgustedly, "right where we started." "Is there any liquor there?" Harold asked. "We're running low." "Don't I know it!" Marc growled peevishly. "They don't run any lower than you two. At least you could have told me we needed gas. The sheriff will be catching up with us any minute now, and he'll probably string us up this time. He might forgive a little murder, but blowing up his jail is a serious matter." Harold lapsed unconcernedly into discordant melody once more, but this time he was not joined by Toffee. "We'd better get out of here," she said. "Let's hide in the house." "We can't go there. It's full of cops." "Well, at least we can hide in the woods." "We'll have to," Marc nodded. "Drag that answer to a distiller's prayer out of there and let's go. I think those lights back there on the bend belong to the sheriff's car." * * * * * When they were safely in the woods, and Harold had been persuaded that his future would be more secure without melodic profanity ... even a rendition of "The Old Pine Tree," especially suited to the occasion ... Marc turned his attention to the road. The sheriff's car was already beside the delivery truck.