"You know better than to drive so fast in the street! I've a great mind to take you in."
Mike was protesting in characteristic fashion, inventing something about the necessity of catching a train, when Clara opened the coupé door and stepped out. A policeman stood at the horse's head, glaring with offended dignity at the driver.
"If there is any fault it is mine, officer," she said sweetly; "please scold me, for I told him to drive as fast as he could."
"That don't make no difference, ma'am," returned the policeman, instantly mollified, but still feeling it incumbent upon him to assert the majesty of municipal ordinances; "he's a regular, and he knew better. 'Tain't allowed to go so fast anywhere in Boston 'less it's on a race track."
"I'm very sorry," said Clara.
"Go on with you," commanded the policeman to Mike, "and be a little more careful. It would be rough on me, you see," he added to Clara, "if I wasn't to stop him."
Mike looked inquiringly down at his passenger.
"Come to the door a minute, Michael," she said, and returned to the coupé.
"That cop's too fresh to live," remarked Mike as he put his head in to receive instructions.
"Were we anywhere near the car?" asked Clara.