The Trail of the White Mule | Page 3

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Etext scanned by Daniel Wentzell of Leesburg, Georgia.

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 ought to call
the patrol right now--"
"Get the undertaker on the line first!" Casey advised him ominously.
Traffic was piling up behind them, and horns were honking a blatant
chorus that extended two blocks up the street. The traffic officer

glanced into the troubled gray eyes of the Little Woman beside Casey
and took his foot off the running board.
"Better go put up your bail and then forfeit it," he advised in a milder
tone. "The judge will probably remember you; I do, and my memory
ain't the best in the world. Twice you've been hooked for speeding
through traffic; and parking by fire-plugs and in front of the No Park
signs and after four, seems to be your big outdoor sport. Forfeit your
bail, old boy--or it's thirty days for you, sure."
Casey Ryan made bitter retort, but the traffic cop had gone to untangle
two furious Fords from a horse-drawn mail wagon, so he did not hear.
Which was good luck for Casey.
"Why do you persist in making trouble for yourself?" the Little Woman
beside him exclaimed. "It can't be so hard to obey the rules; other
drivers do. I know that I have driven this car all over town without any
trouble whatever."
Casey hogged the next safety-zone line to the deep disgust of a young
movie star in a cream-and-silver racer, and pulled in to the curb just
where he could not be passed.
"All right, ma'am. You can drive, then." He slid out of the driver's seat
to the pavement, his face a deeper shade of red than usual.
"For pity's sake, Casey!