Dodo was an excellent driver but she had no New York license, and the girls had forgotten all about that necessity. So the car was speeding along the boulevarde at about twenty-five miles an hour, when a traffic policeman in Yonkers held up his hand to stop the northward-bound travelers.
Dodo had just turned her head momentarily to send a quizzical look at Polly who sat in the back seat, and so failed to see the raised hand. The car therefore ran across the street and at the same time, a low-built racer shot along the right of way and the two noses rammed each other, although both drivers used the emergency brakes.
The girls screamed with fright at the unexpected shock and the dreadful jolt they received when the cars collided. And two young college students cursed politely and scowled fearfully at the “crazy girl-drivers” who never knew which way they were going. But the poor cars suffered the most from this conflict. Headlights were smashed, fenders and mud guards were so dented in as to look pitiful, while the front wheels of both cars were interlocked in such a way that they could not be separated.
This cause held up all traffic on both streets and annoyed the officer so that he threatened a wholesale arrest. He asked the names of both drivers. The young man gave his as “John Baxter, New York.” His license number was taken, and he was asked for his permit. He showed it without hesitation, and the girls gazed at each other in dismay. They had forgotten about such a need!
The officer came over to Dodo’s side.
“What’s your name?”
“Dodo Alexander,” stammered she, forgetting her full name.
“Humph! Baptized that name?”
“Yes—no, oh NO. I never was baptized, I reckon.”
“Humph—a heathen, I see!” snarled the policeman. “Well, where do you live, or where’d you hail from?”