He walked away a few paces, turned and stood glaring back at the car as if familiarizing himself with an object little known and hated much.
Fate, he felt, had played a shabby trick upon an honest man.

Here he stood, a criminal in the eyes of the law, a liar in the eyes of the missus.

An honest man and a truthful, here he was--he, Casey Ryan--actually afraid to face his fellow men.
"HE wasn't no friend of Bill Masters; the divil himself wouldn'ta owned him fer a friend!" snarled Casey, thinking of Kenner.

"Me--CASEY RYAN!--with a load uh booze wished onto me--and a car that may have been stolen fer all I know--an' not a darn' nickel to my name! They can make a goat uh Casey Ryan once, but watch clost when they try it the second time! Casey MAY be gittin' old; he might possibly have softenin' of the brain; but he'll git the skunk that done this, or you'll find his carcass layin' alongside the trail bleachin' like a blowed-out tire! I'll trail 'im till my tongue hangs down to my knees! I'll git 'im an' I'll drown 'im face down in a bucket of his own booze!" Whipped by emotion, his voice rose stridently until it cracked just under a shout.
"That sounds pretty businesslike, old man," a strange voice spoke whimsically behind Casey.

"Who's all this you're going to trail till your tongue hangs down to your knees?
Going to need any help ?" Casey whirled belligerently upon the man who had walked quietly up behind him.
"Where the hell did YOU come from ?" he countered roughly.
"Does it matter?
I'm here," the other parried blandly.