he New York papers. "William Winthrop," he saw the printed words,
"son of Endicott Winthrop, was arrested here this evening, with a young
woman who refused to give her name, but who was recognized as Miss
Beatrice Forbes, whose engagement to Ernest Peabody, the Reform
candidate on the Independent ticket----"

And, of course, Peabody would blame her.

"If I have exceeded your speed limit," he said politely, "I shall be
delighted to pay the fine. How much is it?"

"Judge Allen'll tell you what the fine is," said the selectman gruffly.
"And he may want bail."

"Bail?" demanded Winthrop. "Do you mean to tell me he will detain us
here?"

"He will, if he wants to," answered the chief of police combatively.

For an instant Winthrop sat gazing gloomily ahead, overcome apparently
by the enormity of his offence. He was calculating whether, if he
rammed the two-inch plank, it would hit the car or Miss Forbes. He
decided swiftly it would hit his new two-hundred-dollar lamps. As
swiftly he decided the new lamps must go. But he had read of guardians
of the public safety so regardless of private safety as to try to
puncture runaway tires with pistol bullets. He had no intention of
subjecting Miss Forbes to a fusillade.

So he whirled upon the chief of police:

"Take your hand off that gun!" he growled. "How dare you threaten me?"

Amazed, the chief of police dropped from the step and advanced
indignantly.

"Me?" he demanded. "I ain't got a gun. What you mean by----"

With sudden intelligence, the chauffeur precipitated himself upon the
scene.

"It's the other one," he shouted. He shook an accusing finger at the
selectman. "He pointed it at the lady."

To Miss Forbes the realism of Fred's acting was too convincing. To
learn that one is covered with a loaded revolver is disconcerting.
Miss Forbes gave a startled squeak, and ducked her head.

Winthrop roared aloud at the selectman.

"How dare you frighten the lady!" he cried. "Take your hand off that
gun."

"What you talkin' about?" shouted the selectman. "The idea of my
havin' a gun! I haven't got a----"

"All right, Fred!" cried Winthrop. "Low bridge."

There was a crash of shattered glass and brass, of scattered barrel
staves, the smell of escaping gas, and the Scarlet Car was flying
drunkenly down the main street.

"What are they doing now, Fred?" called the owner.

Fred peered over the stern of the flying car.

"The constable's jumping a