to learn the secret of driving, although I still have trouble at times telling the clutch from the foot-brake. Really, the darn pedals do look alike, don't they?
Well, one afternoon I'm careening up the Great White Way in my brand new sport model Puddle-Jumper when at Seventy-Second Street a perfect idiotic traffic policeman decided to blow his whistle. I stepped on the gas by mistake and leaped past him, evidently to his vast astonishment, for he waved his hands wildly at me and blew that whistle like an annoying child. I managed to stop a little past the corner and immediately Mr. Policeman deserted his post to interview me, leaving the greatly peeved traffic in a hopeless snarl.
"What's the big idea?" he bellows at me, red in the face. "I told you to stop—didn't you see me wave my hand at you?"
"Yes, sir," I says, giving him lots of smile and eye-work.
"Then why the—eh—why didn't you stop?" he roars, pulling out his summons book.
I produced a blush—you can do it by biting your lip.
"I thought you were trying to flirt with me!" I murmured—and honestly, before that big fathead got over it I was two blocks away and bounding along great!
However, this was to be an eventful day, and full of grief for Gladys. Ten minutes after I defeated John
