Casey Ryan, hunched behind the wheel of a large, dark blue touring car with a kinked front fender and the glass gone from the left headlight, slid out from the halted traffic, shied sharply away from a hysterically clanging street car, crossed the path of a huge red truck coming in from his right, missed it with two inches to spare and was halfway down the block before the traffic officer overtook him.
The traffic officer was Irish too, and bigger than Casey, and madder. For all that, Casey offered to lick the livin’ tar outa him before accepting a pale, expensive ticket which he crumbled and put into his pocket without looking at it.
“What I know about these here fancy city rules ain’t sufficient to give a horn-toad a headache—but it’s a darn sight more’n I care,” Casey declaimed hotly. “I never was asked what I thought of them tin signs you stick up on the end of a telegraft pole, to tell folks when to go an’ when to quit goin’. Mebby it’s all right fer these here city drivers—”
“This’ll mean thirty days for you,” spluttered the officer. “I ought to call the patrol right now—”
“Get the undertaker on the line first!” Casey advised him ominously.
Traffic was piling up behind them, and horns were honking a blatant chorus that extended two blocks up the street. The traffic officer glanced into the troubled gray eyes of the Little Woman beside Casey and took his foot off the running board.
“Better go put up your bail and then forfeit it,” he advised in a milder tone. “The judge will probably remember you; I do, and my memory ain’t the best in the world. Twice you’ve been hooked for speeding through traffic; and parking by fire-plugs and in front of the No Park signs and after four, seems to be your big outdoor sport. Forfeit your bail, old boy—or it’s thirty days for you, sure.”
Casey Ryan made bitter retort, but the traffic cop had gone to untangle two furious Fords from a horse-drawn mail wagon, so he did not hear. Which was good luck for Casey...
The traffic officer was Irish too, and bigger than Casey, and madder. For all that, Casey offered to lick the livin’ tar outa him before accepting a pale, expensive ticket which he crumbled and put into his pocket without looking at it.
“What I know about these here fancy city rules ain’t sufficient to give a horn-toad a headache—but it’s a darn sight more’n I care,” Casey declaimed hotly. “I never was asked what I thought of them tin signs you stick up on the end of a telegraft pole, to tell folks when to go an’ when to quit goin’. Mebby it’s all right fer these here city drivers—”
“This’ll mean thirty days for you,” spluttered the officer. “I ought to call the patrol right now—”
“Get the undertaker on the line first!” Casey advised him ominously.
Traffic was piling up behind them, and horns were honking a blatant chorus that extended two blocks up the street. The traffic officer glanced into the troubled gray eyes of the Little Woman beside Casey and took his foot off the running board.
“Better go put up your bail and then forfeit it,” he advised in a milder tone. “The judge will probably remember you; I do, and my memory ain’t the best in the world. Twice you’ve been hooked for speeding through traffic; and parking by fire-plugs and in front of the No Park signs and after four, seems to be your big outdoor sport. Forfeit your bail, old boy—or it’s thirty days for you, sure.”
Casey Ryan made bitter retort, but the traffic cop had gone to untangle two furious Fords from a horse-drawn mail wagon, so he did not hear. Which was good luck for Casey...
