beside him and, still holding the wheel, said:

"Say, Bill, what's the quickest way to get to Bayport?"

Now my name doesn't happen to be Bill and just then I objected to the
re-christening. At another time I might have appreciated the joke and
given him the information without comment. But this morning I didn't
feel like joking. My dissatisfaction with the world in general included
automobilists who made common folks get out of their way, and I was
resentful.

"I should say that you had picked about as quick a way as any," I
answered.

The chauffeur didn't seem to grasp the true inwardness of this brilliant
bit.

"Aw, what--" he stammered. "Say, what--look here, I asked you--"

Then the young man in the tonneau took charge of the conversation. He
was a very young man, with blond hair and a silky mustache, and his
clothes fitted him as clothes have no right to fit--on Cape Cod.

"That'll do, Oscar," he ordered. Then, turning to me, he said:

"See here, my man, we want to go to Bayport."

I was not his man, and wouldn't have been for something. The chauffeur
had irritated me, but he irritated me more. I didn't like him, his
looks, his clothes, and, particularly, his manner. Therefore, because