Johnny Parkinson let in the clutch and rolled northward. This was the strangest “pinch” of his experience and he didn’t know just what to make of it. After he had gone a few blocks he turned on his captor-passenger and said:
“Which station shall I drive to?––I’m sure there must be some mistake.”
“There’s no mistake,” responded Gladwin, fairly screaming with joy inside at the bewildered and frightened look of his friend. “As for police stations, take your pick. I ain’t particular. Drive round the block a couple o’ times an’ make up your mind.”
Johnny Parkinson turned the first corner and then turned again into Madison avenue. Gladwin could hear the couple on the front seat whispering excitedly, the girl almost in hysterics.
“You’ve simply got to do something, Johnny,” she was saying. “You know if we get our names in the paper father will be furious. Remember what he said about the last time you were arrested for speeding.”
Running along Madison avenue, Johnny Parkinson slowed down, turned again to the uniform in the back seat and said tremulously:
“Can’t we compromise this, Officer? I”–––
“Not on the aven-oo, Mr. Parkinson. You’ve got too bad a record. But if ye’ll run the machine over into Central Park where there ain’t so many sergeants roamin’ round we might effict a sittlemint.”
A smile of great gladness illuminated the features of Johnny Parkinson. He let in the clutch with a bang and it was only a matter of seconds before the ninety horsepower car glided in through the Seventy-second street entrance to Central Park and swung into 140 the dark reaches of the East Drive. Slowing down again the young man at the wheel turned and said anxiously: