He scanned each car that approached and slowed for every meeting like a searching party or a man who is lost and wishes to inquire the way.

His pace would have been law-abiding in Los Angeles at five o'clock on Broadway between Fourth and Eighth streets.

Goggled women tourists eyed him curiously, and one car stopped full to see what he wanted.

But his "Tom Pepper" rode safe under the tarp behind him, and the "Three Star Hennessey" beaded daintily with the joggling it got, and Casey was neither halted nor questioned as he passed.
At Camp Cajon Casey stopped and cooked an early supper, because the summer crowd was there and a real bootlegger would have considered stopping rather unsafe.

Casey boiled coffee over one of the camp fireplaces and watched furtively the sunburned holiday group nearest.
He placed his supper on one of the round, cement tables near the car, and every man who passed that way Casey watched unblinkingly while he ate.
He succeeded in making three different parties swallow their supper in a hurry and pack up and leave, glancing back uneasily at Casey as they drove away.