“Don’t believe that guy got hep to our number!  Didn’t have time,” an optimist found courage to declare.

“What darn fool was it that shot first?  Oughta be crowned for that!”

“Aw, the boob started it himself!  He fired on us—­and we were only joshing!”

“He got his, all right!”

“Don’t believe we killed him—­sure, he was more scared than hurt,” put in the optimist dubiously.

“No-body home,” croaked the solemn one again, having recovered his breath.

They wrangled dismally and unconvincingly together, but no one put into speech the fear that rode them hard.  Fast as Jack drove, they kept urging him to “Step on ’er!” A bottle that had been circulating intermittently among the crowd was drained and thrown out on the boulevard, there to menace the tires of other travelers.  The keen wind whipped their hot faces and cleared a little their fuddled senses, now that the bottle was empty.  A glimmer of caution prompted Jack to drive around through Beverly Hills and into Sunset Boulevard, when he might have taken a shorter course home.  It would be better, he thought, to come into town from another direction, even if it took them longer to reach home.  He was careful to keep on a quiet residence street when he passed through.  Hollywood, and he turned at Vermont Avenue and drove out into Griffith Park, swung into a crossroad and came out on a road from Glendale.  He made another turn or two, and finally slid into Los Angeles on the main road from Pasadena, well within the speed limit and with his heart beating a little nearer to normal.

“We’ve been to Mount Wilson, fellows.  Don’t forget that,” he warned his passengers.  “Stick to it.  If they got our number back there we can bluff them into thinking they got it wrong.  I’ll let yuh out here and you can walk home.  Mum’s the word—­get that?”

He had taken only a passive part in the egregious folly of their play, but they climbed out now without protest, subdued and willing to own his leadership.  Perhaps they realized suddenly that he was the soberest man of the lot.  Only once had he drunk on the way home, and that sparingly, when the bottle had made the rounds.  Like whipped schoolboys the six slunk off to their homes, and as they disappeared, Jack felt as though the full burden of the senseless crime had been dropped crushingly upon his shoulders.

He drove the big car quietly up the palm-shaded street to where his mother’s wide-porched bungalow sprawled across two lots.  He was sober now, for the tragedy had shocked him into clear thinking.  He shivered when he turned in across the cement walk and slid slowly down the driveway to the garage.  He climbed stiffly out, rolled the big doors shut, turned on the electric lights and then methodically switched off the lights of the car.  He looked at the clock imbedded in the instrument board and saw that it lacked twenty minutes of three.  It would soon be daylight.  It seemed to him that there was a good deal to be done before daylight.