a fruit faker's wagon looms up out of a side street unexpected, there's
a bump and a crash, and there we are, with a spokeless wooden wheel
draped jaunty over one mud guard, the asphalt strewed with oranges, and
int'rested spectators gatherin' gleeful from all quarters.

Looks like a bad mess too. The old plug of a horse is down, kickin'
the stuffin' out of the harness, and a few feet off is the huckster,
huddled up in a heap like a bag of meal. Course, there's a cop on the
spot. He pushes in where Dudley is tryin' to help the wagon driver up,
takes one look at the wreck, and then flashes his little notebook. He
puts down our license number, calls for the owner's name, prods the
wagon man without result, tells us we're all pinched, and steps over to
a convenient signal box to ring up an ambulance. Inside of three
minutes we're the storm center of a small mob, and there's two other
cops lookin' us over disapprovin'.

"Take 'em all to the station house," says one, who happens to be a
roundsman.

That didn't listen good to me; so I kind of sidles off from our group.
It just struck me that it might be handy to have someone on the outside
lookin' in. But at that I got to the station house almost as soon as
they did. The trio was lined up before the desk Sergeant. Miss
Marjorie's kind of white, but keepin' a stiff lip over it; while Dudley
is holdin' one hand and pattin' it comfortin'.

"Well, who was driving?" is the first thing the Sergeant wants to know.

"If you please, Sir," speaks up Dudley, "I was."