by B. M. Bower
He was rehearsing all this and feeling very self-righteous while he drove down West Washington Street. True, he was doing twenty-five where he shouldn’t, but so far no officer had yelled at him and he hadn’t so much as barked a fender. Down across Grand Avenue he larruped, never noticing the terrific bounce when he crossed the water drains there (being still fresh from desert roads). He was still doing twenty-five when he turned into Hill Street.
Busy with his good resolutions and the blameless life he was about to lead, Casey forgot to signal the left-hand turn. In the desert you don’t signal, because the nearest car is probably forty or fifty miles behind you and collisions are not imminent. West-Washington-and-Hill-Street crossing is not desert, however. A car was coming behind Casey much closer than fifty miles; one of those scuttling Ford delivery trucks. It locked fenders with Casey when he swung to the left. The two cars skidded as one toward the right-hand curb; caught amidships a bright yellow, torpedo-tailed runabout coming up from Main Street, and turned it neatly on its back, its four wheels spinning helplessly in the quiet, sunny morning. Casey himself was catapulted over the runabout, landing abruptly in a sitting position on the corner of the vacant lot beyond, his self-righteousness considerably jarred.
A new traffic officer had been detailed to watch that intersection and teach a driving world that it must not cut corners. A bright, new traffic button had been placed in the geographical center of the crossing; and woe be unto the right-hand pocket of any man who failed to drive circumspectly around it. New traffic officers are apt to be keenly conscientious in their work. At twenty-five dollars per cut, sixteen unhappy drivers had been taught where the new button was located and had been informed that twelve miles per hour at that crossing would be tolerated, and that more would be expensive.
Not all drivers take their teaching meekly, and the new traffic officer near the end of his shift had pessimistically decided that the driving world is composed mostly of blamed idiots and hardened criminals.
He gritted his teeth ominously when Casey Ryan came down upon the crossing at double the legal speed. He held his breath for an instant during the crash that resounded for blocks. When the dust had settled, he ran over and yanked off the dented sand of the vacant lot a dazed and hardened malefactor who had committed three traffic crimes in three seconds: he had exceeded the speed limit outrageously, cut fifteen feet inside the red button, and failed to signal the turn.
“You damned, drunken boob!” shouted the new traffic cop and shook Casey Ryan (not knowing him).
Shaking Casey will never be safe until he is in his coffin with a lily in his hand. He was considerably jolted, but he managed a fourth crime in the next five minutes. He licked the traffic cop rather thoroughly—I suppose because his onslaught was wholly unexpected—kicked an expostulating minister in the pit of the stomach, and was profanely volunteering to lick the whole darned town when he was finally overwhelmed by numbers and captured alive; which speaks well for the L. A. P.
Wherefore Casey Ryan continued his ride down town in a dark car that wears a clamoring bell the size of a breakfast plate under the driver’s foot, and a dark red L. A. Police Patrol sign painted on the sides. Two uniformed, stern-lipped cops rode with him and didn’t seem to care if Casey’s nose was bleeding all over his vest. A uniformed cop stood on the steps behind, and another rode beside the driver and kept his eye peeled over his shoulder, thinking he would be justified in shooting if anything started inside. Boys on bicycles pedaled furiously to keep up, and many an automobile barely escaped the curb because the driver was goggling at the mussed-up prisoner in the “Black Maria.”
The Little Woman telegraphed me at San Francisco that night. The wire was brief but disquieting. It merely said, “Casey in jail serious need help.” But I caught the Lark an hour later and thanked God it was running on time.
The Little Woman and I spent two frantic days getting Casey out of jail. The traffic cop’s defeat had been rather public; and just as soon as he could stand up straight in the pulpit, the minister meant to preach a series of sermons against the laxity of a police force that permits such outrages to occur in broad daylight. More than that, the thing was in the papers, and people were reading and giggling on the street cars and in restaurants. Wherefore, the L. A. P. was on its tin ear.
Even so, much may be accomplished for a man so wholesomely human as Casey Ryan. On the third day the charge against him was changed from something worse to “Reckless driving and disturbing the peace.” Casey was persuaded to plead guilty to that charge, which was harder to accomplish than mollifying the L. A. P.
He paid two fifty-dollar fines and was forbidden to drive a car “in the County of Los Angeles, State of California, during the next succeeding period of two years.” He was further advised (unofficially but nevertheless with complete sincerity) to pay all damages to the two cars he had wrecked and to ask the minister’s doctor what was his fee; a new uniform for the traffic cop was also suggested, since Casey had thrust his foot violently into the cop’s pocket which was not tailored to resist the strain. The judge also observed, in the course of the conversation, that desert air was peculiarly invigorating and that Casey should not jeopardize his health and well-being by filling his lungs with city smoke.
I couldn’t blame Casey much for the mood he was in after a setback like that to his good resolutions. I was inclined to believe with Casey that Providence had lain down on the job.
CHAPTER NINE
At the corner of the Plaza where traffic is heaviest, a dingy Ford loaded with camp outfit stalled on the street-car track just as the traffic officer spread-eagled his arms and turned with majestic deliberation to let the East-and-West traffic through. The motorman slid open his window and shouted insults at the driver, and the traffic cop left his little platform and strode heavily toward the Ford, pulling his book out of his pocket with the mechanical motion born of the grief of many drivers.
Casey Ryan, clinging to the front step of the street car on his way to the apartment house he once more called home, swung off and beat the traffic officer to the Ford. He stooped and gave a heave on the crank, obeyed a motion of the driver’s head when the car started, and stepped upon the running board. The traffic officer paused, waved his book warningly and said something. The motorman drew in his head, clanged the bell, and the afternoon traffic proceeded to untangle.
“Get in, old-timer,” invited the driver whom Casey had assisted. Casey did not ask whether the driver was going in his direction, but got in chuckling at the small triumph over his enemies, the police.
“Fords are mean cusses,” he observed sympathetically. “They like nothing better than to get a feller in bad. But they can’t pull nothin’ on me. I know ’em to a fare-you-well. Notice how this one changed ’er mind about gettin’ you tagged, soon as Casey Ryan took ’er by the nose?”
“Are you Casey Ryan?” The driver took his eyes off the traffic long enough to give Casey an appraising look that measured him mentally and physically. “Say, I’ve heard quite a lot about you. Bill Masters, up at Lund, has spoke of you often. He knows you, don’t he?”
“Bill Masters sure had ought t’ know me,” Casey grinned. In a big, roaring, unfriendly city, here sounded a friendly, familiar tone; a voice straight from the desert, as it were. Casey forgot what had happened when Barney Oakes crossed his path claiming acquaintance with Bill Masters, of Lund. He bit off a chew of tobacco, hunched down lower in the seat, and prepared himself for a real conflab with the man who spoke the language of his tribe.
He forgot that he had just bought tickets to that evening’s performance at the Orpheum, as a sort of farewell offering to his domestic goddess before once more going into voluntary exile as advised by the judge. Pasadena Avenue heard conversational fragments such as, “Say! Do you know—? Was you in Lund when—?”
Casey’s new friend drove as fast as the law permitted. He talked of many places and men familiar to Casey, who was in a mood that hungered for those places and m
en in a spiritual revulsion against the city and all its ways.
Pasadena, Lamanda Park, Monrovia—it was not until the car slowed for the Glendora speed-limit sign that Casey lifted himself off his shoulder blades, and awoke to the fact that he was some distance from home and that the shadows were growing rather long.
“Say! I better get out here and ’phone to the missus,” he exclaimed suddenly. “Pull up at a drug store or some place, will yuh? I got to talkin’ an’ forgot I was on my way home when I throwed in with yuh.”
“Aw, you can ’phone any time. There is street cars running back to town all the time I or you can catch a bus anywhere’s along here. I got pinched once for drivin’ through here without a tail-light; and twice I’ve had blowouts right along here. This town’s a jinx for me and I want to slip it behind me.”
Casey nodded appreciatively. “Every darn’ town’s a jinx for me,” he confided resentfully. “Towns an’ Casey Ryan don’t agree. Towns is harder on me than sour beans.”
“Yeah—I guess L. A.’s a jinx for you all right. I heard about your latest run-in with the cops. I wish t’ heck you’d of cleaned up a few for me. I love them saps the way I like rat poison. I’ve got no use for the clowns nor for towns that actually hands ’em good jack for dealin’ misery to us guys. The bird never lived that got a square deal from ’em. They grab yuh and dust yuh off—”
“They won’t grab Casey Ryan no more. Why, lemme tell yuh what they done!”
Glendora slipped behind and was forgotten while Casey told the story of his wrongs. In no particular, according to his version, had he been other than law-abiding. Nobody, he declaimed heatedly, had ever taken him by the scruff of the neck and shaken him like a pup, and got away with it, and nobody ever would. Casey was Irish and his father had been Irish, and the Ryan never lived that took sass and said thank-yuh.
His new friend listened with just that degree of sympathy which encourages the unburdening of the soul. When Casey next awoke to the fact that he was getting farther and farther away from home, they were away past Claremont and still going to the full extent of the speed limit. His friend had switched on the lights.
“I got to telephone my wife!” Casey exclaimed uneasily. “I’ll gamble she’s down to the police station right now, lookin’ for me. An’ I want the cops t’ kinda forgit about me. I got to talkin’ along an’ plumb forgot I wasn’t headed home.”
“Aw, you can ’phone from Fontana. I’ll have to stop there anyway for gas. Say, why don’t yuh stall ’er off till morning? You couldn’t get home for supper now if yuh went by wireless. I guess yuh wouldn’t hate a mouthful of desert air after swallowing smoke and insults, like yuh done in L. A. Tell her you’re takin’ a ride to Barstow. You can catch a train out of there and be home to breakfast, easy. If you ain’t got the change in your clothes for carfare,” he added generously, “Why, I’ll stake yuh just for your company on the trip. Whadda yuh say?”
Casey looked at the orange and the grapefruit and lemon orchards that walled the Foothill Boulevard. All trees looked alike to Casey, and these reminded him disagreeably of the fruit stalls in Los Angeles.
“Well, mebby I might go on to Barstow. Too late now to take the missus to the show, anyway. I guess I can dig up the price uh carfare from Barstow back.” He chuckled with a sinful pride in his prosperity, which was still new enough to be novel. “Yuh don’t catch Casey Ryan goin’ around no more without a dime in his hind pocket. I’ve felt the lack of ’em too many times when they was needed. Casey Ryan’s going to carry a jingle louder’n a lead burro from now on. You can ask anybody.”
“You bet it’s wise for a feller to go heeled,” the friend of Bill Masters responded easily. “You never know when yuh might need it. Well, there’s a Bell sign over there. You can be askin’ your wife’s consent while I gas up.”
Innocent pleasure; the blameless joy of riding in a Ford toward the desert, with a prince of a fellow for company, was not so easily made to sound logical and a perfectly commonplace incident over a long-distance telephone. The Little Woman seemed struck with a sense of the unusual; her voice betrayed trepidation and she asked questions which Casey found it difficult to answer. That he was merely riding as far as Barstow with a desert acquaintance and would catch the first train back, she apparently failed to find convincing.
“Casey Ryan, tell me the truth. If you’re in a scrape again, you know perfectly well that Jack and I will have to come and get you out of it. San Bernardino sounds bad to me, Casey, and you’re pretty close to the place. Do you really want me to believe that you’re coming back on the next train?”
“Sure as I’m standin’ here! What makes yuh think I’m in a scrape? Didn’t I tell yuh I’m goin’ to walk around trouble from now on? When Casey tells you a thing like that, yuh got a right to put it down for the truth. I’m going to Barstow for a breath uh fresh air. This is a feller that knows Bill Masters. I’ll be home to breakfast. I ain’t in no trouble an’ I ain’t goin’ to be. You can believe that or you can set there callin’ Casey Ryan a liar till I git back. G’by.”
Whatever the Little Woman thought of it, Casey really meant to do exactly what he said he would do. And he really did not believe that trouble was within a hundred miles of him.
CHAPTER TEN
“Wanta drive?” Casey’s friend was rolling a smoke before he cranked up. “They tell me up in Lund that no man livin’ ever got the chance to look back and see Casey Ryan swallowing dust. I’ve heard of some that’s tried. But I reckon,” he added pensively, while he rubbed the damp edge of the paper down carefully with a yellowed thumb, “Fords is out of your line, now. Maybe you don’t toy with nothin’ cheaper than a twin-six.”
“Well, you can ask anybody if Casey Ryan’s the man to git big-headed! Money don’t spoil me none. There ain’t anybody c’n say it does. Casey Ryan is Casey Ryan wherever an’ whenever yuh meet up with him. Yuh might mebby see me next, hazin’ a burro over a ridge. Or yuh might see me with ten pounds uh flour, a quart uh beans an’ a sour-dough bucket on my back. Whichever way the game breaks—you’ll be seein’ Casey Ryan; an’ you’ll see ’im settin’ in the game an’ ready t’ push his last white chip to the center.”
“I believe it, Casey. Darned if I don’t. Well, you drive ’er awhile; till yuh get tired, anyway.” He bent to the crank, gave a heave and climbed in, with Casey behind the wheel, looking pleased to be there and quite ready to show the world he could drive.
“Say, if I drive till I’m tired,” he retorted, “I’m liable to soak ’er hubs in the Atlantic Ocean before I quit. And then, mebby I’ll back ’er out an’ drive ’er to the end of Venice Pier just for pastime.”
“Up in Lund they’re talkin’ yet about your drivin’,” his new friend flattered him. “They say there’s no stops when you get the wheel cuddled up to your chest. No quittin’ an’ no passin’ yuh by with a merry laugh an’ a cloud of alkali dust. I guess it’s right. I’ve been wantin’ to meet yuh.”
“That there last remark sounds like a traffic cop I had a run-in with once!” Casey snorted—merely to hide his gratification. “You sound good, just to listen to, but you ain’t altogether believable. There’s men in Lund that’d give an ear to meet me in a narrow trail with a hairpin turn an’ me on the outside an’ drunk.
“They’d like it to be about a four-thousand-foot drop, straight down. Lund as a town ain’t so crazy about me that they’d close up whilst I was bein’ planted, an’ stop all traffic for five minutes. A show benefit was sprung on Lund once, to help Casey Ryan that was supposed to be crippled. An’ I had to give a good Ford—a darn’ good Ford!—to the benefitters, so is they could git outa town ahead uh the howlin’ mob. That’s how I know the way Lund loves Casey Ryan. Yuh can’t kid me, young feller.”
Meanwhile, Casey swung north into Cajon Pass; up that long, straight, cement-paved highway to the hills he showed his new friend how a Ford could travel when Casey Ryan juggled the wheel. The full moon was pushing up into a cloud bank o
ver a high peak beyond the Pass. The few cars they met were gone with a whistle of wind as Casey shot by.
He raced a passenger train from the mile whistling-post to the crossing, made the turn and crossed the track with the white finger of the headlight bathing the Ford blindingly. He completed that S turn and beat the train to the next crossing half a mile farther on; where he “spiked ’er tail”, as he called it, stopping dead still and waiting jeeringly for the train to pass. The engineer leaned far out of the cab window to bellow his opinion of such driving; which was unfavorable to the full extent of his vocabulary.
“Nothin’ the matter with a Ford, as I can see,” Casey observed carelessly, when he was under way again.
“You sure are some driver,” his new friend praised him, letting go the edge of the car and easing down again into the seat. “Give yuh a Ford and all the gas yuh can burn and I can’t see that you’d need to worry none about any of them saps that makes it their business to interfere with travelin’. I’m glad that moon’s quit the job. Gives the headlights a show. Hit ’er up now, fast as yuh like. After that crossin’ back there I ain’t expectin’ to tremble on no curves. I see you’re qualified to spin ’er on a plate if need be. And for a Ford, she sure can travel.”
Casey therefore “let ’er out”, and the Ford went like a scared lizard up the winding highway through the Pass. At Cajon Camp he slowed, thinking they would need to fill the radiator before attempting to climb the steep grade to the summit. But the young man shook his head and gave the “highball.” (Which, if you don’t already know it, is the signal for full speed ahead.)