CHAPTER FOURDick McCue started off like a jet pilot. “What’s the hurry?” Mrs. Goudeket demanded. “Better go slow and we’ll get there.” She was feeling uneasier than ever; because though she had heard the rain pounding on the house, and seen the rain sluicing down the windows, she hadn’t felt the rain until that two-yard dash from the door to the station wagon that had wet her to the skin.
“Sure, Mrs. Goudeket,” he said cheerfully, and slowed down—briefly. Fast, slow—he could drive that blacktop road down to the highway in his sleep. This was what he liked; something happening. He never would have taken the agency’s offer of this job if he’d known it would involve running putting contests for rained-in guests who blamed it all on him. Girls, dances, a chance to sharpen up his game for the
