at Blake. Blake did not look back. Instead, his hand hit hard on the wheel and Gaylord felt that it had been meant for him. The duel between them, half confessional, all counterpoint went silently forward … Gaylord murmured … "I'm sorry I forgot about the lighter …" The soft, trembling young voice was flat. No apology … no nothing. He threw away the cigarette.
"Huh," grunted Blake.
Gaylord felt crushed under the sour indictment. Reality hit him with a cold metallic touch but he would not admit it. He could not lose Blake. He would overlook the bad and see only the good. To have Blake's love in spite of the hateful words, clamored in the young Gaylord, tempted him to despair devices … "I'm sure tired … It's …"
Blake cut in bluntly. "Guess you ought to be."
Gaylord listened to the words and the sneer that followed. "Bob?" he asked. "What's wrong? Have I done something?" He looked at Blake and there was sentiment in his survey. He touched Blake's leg, and asked, "Can't you tell me?"
"Don't touch me," Blake's teeth met hard. And he deliberately drew his leg from under the gentle caress; shrank away as if the hand was unclean; as if by the touch his leg would become diseased, decayed.
The car about Gaylord seemed to draw in. It shrank even more. Panic was growing. It was aflame along every nerve, burning in the heart of every body cell. He lived a terrible moment before he cried out, "Oh … Bob …"
"Yessss," Blake snarled, gripping the wheel angrily. "What the hell do you want now?" He hung onto the wheel as if his life depended on it and stared in front of him like it was the last day of his life.
Gaylord hesitated, lost and miserable. "I wish you'd tell me why you're acting this way."
"How do you want me to act? Want me to purr over you like I would a dame?"
"No," Gaylord answered and his lips felt parched, dry … He was afraid he was going to cry. "I don't want you to purr over me …" He was going to cry. Tears were already forming. He looked
