Michael Malone - Weebly

driver was worried that his partner might have seen him
vomit; he feared too that he had sounded inanely naïve
with his, "Gosh, I don't believe it, a shoot-out!" which
he cursed himself for having exclaimed. He flipped on
the siren and gunned the motor, forcing the car in front
of him halfway onto the shoulder, then sped past with
belligerent legality at ninety miles an hour.
Shortly before 1:00 A.M. the tiny bright yellow MG
Midget was stopped by the roadblock set up on Route
3 to forestall locals and vacationers from driving up the
ridge to sightsee. With some difficulty and more
embarrassment, Winslow Abernathy, almost bent
double, unraveled himself from the roadster, noticing as
he extricated a leg that he wore no sock and that his
pajamas showed below his pants cuff. The area looked
like a battle station. With a group of men (among them
the Argyle fire chief), Cecil Hedgerow stood bent over
a car hood where a surveyor's map flapped up at the
corners. For a wind had risen, after the still, sullen day,
and now the fire licked south and westward, huge and
hot even where they stood. "It doesn't look good," said
Hedgerow, his own face singed and his hands white