THE TRAIL OF THE WHITE MULE

by B. M. Bower




CHAPTER ONE

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