Down the winding road shot the automobile, trailing a cloud of dust behind it. Besides the driver, a smoothfaced, bespectacled man of thirty, it contained only one person, a stout, florid, worried-looking individual in the middle years of life.

“Careful, Hitchens!” warned the latter, as the man at the wheel made a turn that barely prevented them from taking to the ditch. “You know you’re not used to driving. Don’t pile us up.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” returned the driver reassuringly. “You know you’ve got to catch that train if you’re going to get to your office for the conference with the chairman of the State committee. You’ll have to talk with old Wiggin over the phone. No time to stop in Greenbush and chin with him now.”

“We’ve got to pick up the boy in town. He must have got there twenty minutes ago. We’re liable to meet him starting out after me with a hired car. Keep your eyes peeled.”

Around another curve careened the car, and struck the straight, gentle incline running down into the village. Out from behind the sumacs dashed the constables, Jeremiah Small planting himself in the very center of the highway, one hand upflung authoritatively while the other flipped back his coat and revealed the badge pinned to his left suspender. Silas Buzzell backed him up, but with a shade more discretion about blocking the path of the speeding motor car.

“Stop!” shouted Constable Small. “In the name of the law I command you!”

“Hold up!” wheezed Constable Buzzell. “Stop right where ye be!”

“Pinched!” exclaimed the driver, in disgust and consternation.

“Don’t stop! Go on!” rasped the florid-faced man at his side. Then he lifted himself above the glass wind shield, flung up his gloved hands, and roared: “Clear the road, you idiots! Out of the way! Get out!”

Seeing the automobile whizzing straight at him without slackening speed to any perceptible degree, Jeremiah Small cast his dignity to the winds and made a leap for safety. Weeping Buzzell backed off the shoulder of the road, caught his heel, and sat down amid the dusty grass of the shallow ditch. The car swished past, the stout man relaxing on the seat, and tore on its way.

“That’ll cost ye ten dollars more for defyin’ the majesty of the law!” spluttered Small, shutting his eyes to prevent them from being filled with the blinding cloud 

 Prev. P 13/31 next