The volatile, insouciant Mr. Parr employed the correct word when he said “snake,” for he wriggled a swift and serpentinous way through the traffic of Clay Street in his noisy red roadster, keeping up a running fire of conversation all the time, much of it being drowned by the louder fire of the muffler cut-out—which he used unsparingly in place of his horn in tight pinches.
“There’s Jane on ahead,” he sang out to Oliver as they whizzed across Pershing Street.
“Where?” cried Oliver, starting up.
“Back there,” replied Sammy, with a jerk of his head.
Oliver twisted in the seat and looked over his shoulder. Jane was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring after the red roadster. He half-rose and waved his hand to her. She did not respond at once. The car was swinging into a cross street before she recovered from her astonishment. Then she waved her hand—and the last he saw of her she was standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Say, what the—what’s the rush?” he roared. “I want to speak to Jane. Stop the damn thing, will you? Let me out. I’ll run back and—”
“Keep your shirt on,” chirped Sammy. “I’ll run you clear around the block and we’ll head her off. Quicker than backing and turning in this—”
“Go ahead!” commanded Mr. Baxter sharply. “Let’s get home. You can see Jane to-morrow or next day,” he shouted to his son.
“Oh, I say, dad!”
“If you’d sooner see her than me—all right. All right! Turn around, Sammy, and take him back. Let me out. I’ll walk the rest of the way home.”