The Trail of the White Mule | Page 4

Don't be silly," his wife cried sharply, a bit of
panic in her voice.
"You was in a hurry to git home," Casey pointed out to her with that
mildness of manner which is not mild. "I was hurryin', wasn't I?"
"You aren't hurrying now--you're delaying the traffic again. Do be
reasonable! You know it costs money to argue with the police."
"Police be damned! I'm tryin' to please a woman, an' I'm up agin a hard
proposition. You can ask anybody if I'm the unreasonable one. You
hustled me out of the show soon as the huggin' commenced. You

wouldn't even let me stay to see the first of Mutt and Jeff. You said you
was in a hurry. I leaves the show without seein' the best part, gits the
car an' drills through the traffic tryin' to git yuh home quick. Now
you're kickin' because I did hurry."
"Hey! Whadda yuh mean, blockin' the traffic?" a domineering voice
behind him bellowed. "This ain't any reception hall, and it ain't no free
auto park neither."
Another traffic officer with another pencil and another pad of tickets
such as drivers dread to see began to write down the number of Casey's
car. This man did not argue. He finished his work briskly, presented
another notice which advised Casey Ryan to report immediately to
police headquarters, waved Casey peremptorily to proceed, and
returned to his little square platform to the chorus of blatting
automobile horns.
"The cops in this town hands out tickets like they was Free Excursion
peddlers!" snorted Casey, his eyes a pale glitter behind his half-closed
lids. "They can go around me, or they can honk and be darned to 'em.
Git behind the wheel, ma'am--Casey Ryan's drove the last inch he'll
ever drive in this darned town. If they pinch me again, it'll have to be
fer walkin'."
The Little Woman looked at him, pressed her lips together and moved
behind the wheel. She did not say a word all the way out to the white
apartment house on Vermont which held the four rooms they called
home. She parked the car dexterously in front and led the way to their
apartment (ground floor, front) before she looked at me.
"It's coming to a show-down, Jack," she said then with a faint smile.
"He's on probation already for disobeying traffic rules of one sort and
other, and his fines cost more than the entire upkeep of the car. I think
he really will have to go to jail this time. It just isn't in Casey Ryan to
take orders from any one, especially when his own personal habits of
driving a car are concerned."
"Town life is getting on his nerves," I tried to defend Casey, and at the

same time to comfort the Little Woman. "I didn't think it would work,
his coming here to live, with nothing to do but spend money. This is the
inevitable result of too much money and too much leisure."
"It sounds much better, putting it that way," murmured Mrs. Casey. "I
think you're right--though he did behave back there as if it were too
much matrimony. Jack, he's been looking forward to your visit. I'm
sorry this has happened to spoil it."
"It isn't spoiled," I grinned. "Casey Ryan is, always and ever shall be
Casey Ryan. He's running true to form, though tamer than one would
expect. When do you think he'll show up?"
Mrs. Casey did not know. She ventured a guess or two, but there was
no conviction in her tone. With two nominal arrests in five minutes
chalked against him, and with his first rebellion against the Little
Woman to rankle in his conscience and memory, she owned herself at a
loss.
With a cheerfulness that was only conversation deep, we waited for
Casey and finally ate supper without him. The evening was enlivened
somewhat by Babe's chatter of kindergarten doings; and was
punctuated by certain pauses while steps on the sidewalk passed on or
ended with the closing of another door than the Ryans'. I fought the
impulse to call up the police station, and I caught the eyes of the Little
Woman straying unconsciously to the telephone in the hall while she
talked of things remote from our inner thoughts. Margaret Ryan is
game, I'll say that. We played cribbage for an hour or two, and the
Little Woman beat me until finally I threw up my hands and quit.
"I can't stand it any longer, Mrs. Casey. Do you think he's in jail, or just
sulking at a movie somewhere?" I blurted. "Forgive my butting in, but I
wish you'd talk about it. You know you can, to me. Casey Ryan is a
friend and more than a friend: he's a pet theory of