Just as he used to walk around a good horse and pat its sleek shoulder and feel the hard muscles of its trim legs, so now he made love to this big car.

Let that old hen of Foster's crab the trip south?
He should sa-a-ay not! There did not seem to be a thing that he could do to her, but nevertheless he got down and, gave all the grease cups a turn, removed the number plates and put them under the rear seat cushion, inspected the gas tank and the oil gauge and the fanbelt and the radiator, turned back the trip-mileage to zero--professional driving had made Bud careful as a taxi driver about recording the mileage of a trip--looked at the clock set in the instrument board, and pondered.
What if the old lady took a notion to drive somewhere?
She would miss the car and raise a hullabaloo, and maybe crab the whole thing in the start.

In that case, Bud decided that the best way would be to let her go.

He could pile on to the empty trunk rack behind, and manage somehow to get off with the car when she stopped.

Still, there was not much chance of her going out in the fog--and now that he listened, he heard the drip of rain.