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.
