Jack dear has to use them in a comedy sketch we put on sometimes when we got a good house." Casey banged the door and said something exceedingly stage-driverish which a lady should by no means overhear.
Sounds from the rear of the garage indicated that Casey's Ford was r'arin' to go, as Casey frequently expressed it.

Voices were jumbled in the tones of suggestions, commands, protest.

Casey heard the show lady's clear treble berating Jack dear with thin politeness.

Then the car came snorting forward, paused in the wide doorway, and the show lady's voice called out clearly, untroubled as the voice of a child after it has received that which it cried for.
"Well, good-by, Mister! You certainly are a godsend to give us the loan of your car!" There was a buzz and a splutter, and they were gone--gone clean out of Casey's life into the unknown whence they had come.
Bill opened the door gently and eased into the office, sniffing liniment.
The painted hollows under Casey's eyes gave him a ghastly look in the lamp-light when he lifted his face from examining a chafed and angry knee.
Bill opened his mouth for speech, caught a certain look in Casey's eyes and did not say what he had intended to say.

Instead: "You better sleep here in the office, Casey.