"You are so!" says she. "Old fuss budget! Stewcat!"

"Rattlehead!" says Dudley.

"Don't mind me," I breaks in. "I'm havin' my manners improved."

All that brings out, though, is a glance and a shoulder shrug, and they proceed with the squabble.

"Dud Chandler," says Marjorie determined, "I am going to drive the car today! You did yesterday for an hour."

"That's entirely different," says Dudley. "I'm used to it, and Henry said I might."

"And Henry says I may too--so there!" says Marjorie. "And you know I'm just crazy to try it on Fifth Avenue."

"You'd look nice, wouldn't you?" says Brother scornful. "A limousine!"

"But Bud Adams let me drive theirs; in Boston too," protests Marjorie.

"Bud Adams is a bonehead, then," says Dudley.

"Dudley Chandler," snaps Sister, her eyes throwin' off sparks, "don't you dare talk that way about my friends!"

"Huh!" says Brother. "If there ever was a b.o.o.b, that Bud Adams is----"

Say, there's only a flash and a squeal before Sister has landed a smack on his jaw and has both hands in his hair. Looked like a real rough-house session, right there in the lib'ry, when there comes a call for me down the stairs from Mrs. Ellins. She wants to know if I'm ready.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Sister has landed a smack on his jaw.]

"Waitin' here, Ma'am," says I, steppin' out into the hall.

"And Marjorie and Dudley?" says she. "Are the dear young folks ready too?"

"I'll ask 'em," says I. And with that I dodges hack where they're standin' glarin' at each other. "Well," says I, "is it to be a go to a finish, or----"

"Come, Marjorie," says Dudley, "be decent."

"I--am going to do it!" announces Marjorie.

"Mule!" hisses Dudley.

And that's the status quo between these two models when we starts for the car. Marjorie makes a quick break and plants herself in front by the chauffeur, leavin' Brother to climb inside with me and the bundles.

He grits his teeth and murmurs a few remarks under his breath.

"Some pep to that sister of yours, eh?" says I.

"She's an obstinate little fool!" says Dudley. "Look at that, now! I knew she would!"

Yep, she had. We're no sooner under way than the obligin' Henry slides out of his seat and lets Miss Marjorie slip in behind the wheel. She can drive a car all right too. You ought to see her throw in the high and go beatin' it down the avenue, takin' signals from the traffic cops at crossing, skinnin' around motor busses, and crowdin' out a fresh taxi driver that tried to hog a corner on her. Nothin' timid or amateurish either about the way she handled that ten-thousand-dollar gas wagon of Old Hickory's. Where I'd be jammin' on both brakes and callin' for help, she just breezes along like she had the street all to herself.

Meantime Brother is sittin' with both feet braced and one hand on the door, now and then sighin' relieved as we sc.r.a.pe through a tight place.

But we'd been down quite a ways and was part way back, headed for Riverside Drive, and was rollin' along merry too, when all of a sudden a fruit faker's wagon looms up out of a side street unexpected, there's a b.u.mp 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."

"Why, Dudley!" says Peggy, openin' her eyes wide. "You know----"

"Hush up!" whispers Brother.

"Sha'nt!" says Marjorie. "I was driving, Mr. Officer."

"Rot!" says Dudley. "Pay no attention to her, Sergeant."

"Suit yourself," says the Sergeant. "I'd just as soon lock up two as one. Then we'll be sure."

"There! You see!" says Brother. "You aren't helping any. Now keep out, will you?"

"But, Dudley----" protests Marjorie.

"That'll do," says the Sergeant. "You'll have plenty of time to talk it over afterwards. Hospital case, eh? Then we can't take bail.

Names, now!"

And it's while their names are bein' put on the blotter that I slides out, hunts up a pay station, and gets Mr. Robert on the 'phone.

"Better lug along a good-sized roll," says I, after I've explained the case, "and start a lawyer or two this way. You'll need 'em."

"I will," says Mr. Robert. "And you'll meet me at the station, will you?"

"Later on," says I. "I want to try a little sleuthin' first."

You see, I'd spotted the faker's name on the wagon license, and it occurs to me that before any of them damage-suit shysters get to him it would be a good scheme to discover just how bad he was bunged up. So my bluff is that it's an uncle of mine that's been hurt. By pushin' it good and hard too, and insistin' that I'd got to see him, I gets clear into the cot without bein' held up. And there's the victim, snoozin'

peaceful.

"Gee!" says I to the nurse, sniffin' the atmosphere. "Had to brace him up with a drink, did you?"

She smiles at that. "Hardly," says she. "He had attended to that, or he wouldn't be in here. This is the alcoholic ward, you know."

"Huh!" says I. "Pickled, was he? But is he hurt bad?"

"Not at all," says she. "He will be all right as soon as he's sober."

Did I smoke it back to the station house? Well, some! And Mr. Robert was there, talkin' to two volunteer witnesses who was ready to swear the faker was drivin' on the wrong side of the street and not lookin'