"No-body home! No-body home! Had to spill the beans, you simps! Nobody home a-tall! Had to shoot a man--got us all in wrong, you simps! Nobody home!" He waggled his head and flapped his hands in drunken self-righteousness, because he had not possessed a gun and therefore could not have committed the blunder of shooting the man.
"Aw, can that stuff! You're as much to blame as anybody," snapped the man nearest him, and gave the croaker a vicious jab with his elbow.
"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.