In the desert, where roads are fewer and worse than they should be, a
man may travel wherever he can negotiate the rocks and sand, and none
may say him nay. If any man objects, the traveler is by custom
privileged to whip the objector if he is big enough, and afterwards go
on his way with the full approval of public opinion. He may blaze a
trail of his own, return that way a year later and find his trail an
established thoroughfare.
In the desert Casey gave trail to none nor asked reprisals if he
suffered most in a sudden meeting. In Los Angeles Casey was halted and
rebuked on every corner, so he complained; hampered and annoyed by
rules and regulations which desert dwellers never dreamed of.
Since he kept the optimistic viewpoint of a child, experience seemed to
teach him little. Like the boy he was at heart, he was perfectly
willing to make good resolutions--all of which were more or less
theoretical and left to a kindly Providence to keep intact for him.
So here he was, after we had pried him loose from his last predicament,
perfectly optimistic under his fresh haircut, and thinking the traffic
cops would not remember him. Thinking, too--as he confided to the
Little Woman--that Los Angeles looked pretty good, after all. He was
resolved to lead henceforth a blameless life. It was time he settled
down, Casey declared virtuously. His last trip into the desert was all
wrong, and he wanted you to ask anybody if Casey Ryan wasn't ready at
any and all times to admit his mistakes, if he ever happened to make
any. He was starting in fresh now, with a new deal all around from a
new deck. He had got up and walked around his chair, he told us, and
had thrown the ash of a left-handed cigarette over his right shoulder;
he'd show the world that Casey Ryan could and would keep out of gunshot
of trouble.
He was rehearsing all this and feeling very self-righteous while he
drove down West Washington Street. True, he was doing twenty-five
where he shouldn't, but so far no officer had yelled at him and he
hadn't so much as barked a fender. Down across Grand Avenue he
larruped, never noticing the terrific bounce when he crossed the water
drains there (being still fresh from desert roads). He was still doing
twenty-five when he turned into Hill Street.
Busy with his good resolutions and the blameless life he was about to
lead, Casey forgot to signal the left-hand turn. In the desert you
don't signal, because the nearest car is probably forty or fifty miles
behind you and collisions are not imminent.
West-Washington-and-Hill-Street crossing is not desert, however. A car
was coming behind Casey much closer than fifty miles; one of those
scuttling Ford delivery trucks. It locked fenders with Casey when he
swung to the left. The two cars skidded as one toward the right-hand
curb; caught amidships a bright yellow, torpedo-tailed runabout coming
up from Main Street, and turned it neatly on its back, its four wheels
spinning helplessly in the quiet, sunny morning. Casey himself was
catapulted over the runabout, landing abruptly in a sitting position on
the corner of the vacant lot beyond, his self-righteousness
considerably jarred.
A new traffic officer had been detailed to watch that intersection and
teach a driving world that it must not cut corners. A bright, new
traffic button had been placed in the geographical center of the
crossing; and woe be unto the right-hand pocket of any man who failed
to drive circumspectly around it. New traffic officers are apt to be
keenly conscientious in their work. At twenty-five dollars per cut,
sixteen unhappy drivers had been taught where the new button was
located and had been informed that twelve miles per hour at that
crossing would be tolerated, and that more would be expensive.
Not all drivers take their teaching meekly, and the new traffic officer
near the end of his shift had pessimistically decided that the driving
world is composed mostly of blamed idiots and hardened criminals.
He gritted his teeth ominously when Casey Ryan came down upon the
crossing at double the legal speed. He held his breath for an instant
during the crash that resounded for blocks. When the dust had settled,
he ran over and yanked off the dented sand of the vacant lot a dazed
and hardened malefactor who had committed three traffic crimes in three
seconds: he had exceeded the speed limit outrageously, cut fifteen feet
inside the red button, and failed to signal the turn.
"You damned, drunken boob!" shouted the new traffic cop and shook Casey
Ryan (not knowing him).
Shaking Casey will never be safe until he is in his coffin with a lily
in his hand. He was considerably jolted, but he managed a fourth crime
in the next five minutes. He licked the traffic cop rather
thoroughly--I suppose because his onslaught was wholly
unexpected--kicked an expostulating minister in the pit of the stomach,
and was profanely volunteering to lick the whole darned town when he
was finally overwhelmed by numbers and captured alive; which speaks
well for the L. A. P.
Wherefore Casey Ryan continued his ride down town in a dark car that
wears a clamoring bell the size of a breakfast plate under the driver's
foot, and a dark red L. A. Police Patrol sign painted on the sides.
Two uniformed, stern-lipped cops rode with him and didn't seem to care
if Casey's nose WAS bleeding all over his vest. A uniformed cop stood
on the steps behind, and another rode beside the driver and kept his
eye peeled over his shoulder, thinking he would be justified in
shooting if anything started inside. Boys on bicycles pedaled
furiously to keep up, and many an automobile barely escaped the curb
because the driver was goggling at the mussed-up prisoner in the "Black
Maria."
The Little Woman telegraphed me at San Francisco that night. The wire
was brief but disquieting. It merely said, "CASEY IN JAIL SERIOUS NEED
HELP." But I caught the Lark an hour later and thanked God it was
running on time.
The Little Woman and I spent two frantic days getting Casey out of
jail. The traffic cop's defeat had been rather public; and just as
soon as he could stand up straight in the pulpit, the minister meant to
preach a series of sermons against the laxity of a police force that
permits such outrages to occur in broad daylight. More than that, the
thing was in the papers, and people were reading and giggling on the
street cars and in restaurants. Wherefore, the L. A. P. was on its tin
ear.
Even so, much may be accomplished for a man so wholesomely human as
Casey Ryan. On the third day the charge against him was changed from
something worse to "Reckless driving and disturbing the peace." Casey
was persuaded to plead guilty to that charge, which was harder to
accomplish than mollifying the L. A. P.
He paid two fifty-dollar fines and was forbidden to drive a car "in the
County of Los Angeles, State of California, during the next succeeding
period of two years." He was further advised (unofficially but
nevertheless with complete sincerity) to pay all damages to the two
cars he had wrecked and to ask the minister's doctor what was his fee;
a new uniform for the traffic cop was also suggested, since Casey had
thrust his foot violently into the cop's pocket which was not tailored
to resist the strain. The judge also observed, in the course of the
conversation, that desert air was peculiarly invigorating and that
Casey should not jeopardize his health and well-being by filling his
lungs with city smoke.
I couldn't blame Casey much for the mood he was in after a setback like
that to his good resolutions. I was inclined to believe with Casey
that Providence had lain down on the job.