uth he came down grade around a bend squarely upon a
car ascending. Chuck's car was going too fast to be stopped. He tried
desperately to wrench it from the road, but perceived at once that this
was impossible without a fatal skid. Fortunately the only turnout for a
half mile happened to be just at that spot. The other man managed to
jump his car out on this little side ledge and to jam on his brakes at
the very brink, just as Chuck flashed by. His mud guards slipped under
those at the rear of the other car.

"Close," observed Chuck to Joe Merrill his companion, "I was going a
little too fast," and thought no more of it.

But the other man, being angry, turned around and followed him into
town. At the garage he sought Chuck out.

"Didn't you pass me on the grade five miles back?" he inquired.

"I may have done so," replied Chuck, courteously.

"Don't you realize that you were going altogether too fast for a
mountain grade? that you were completely out of control?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to admit that that is so."

"Well," said the other man, with difficulty suppressing his anger. "What
do you suppose would have happened if I hadn't just been able to pull
out?"

"Why," replied Chuck, blandly, "I suppose I'd have had to pay heavily;
that's all."

"Pay!" cried the man, then checked himself with an effort, "so you
imagine you are privileged to the road, do whatever damage you
please--and _pay!_ I'll just take your number."

"That is unnecessary. My name is Charles Gates," replied Chuck, "of San
Francisco."

The man appeared never to have heard of this potent cognomen. A month
later the trial came off. It was most inconvenient. Chuck was in Oregon,
hunting. He had to travel many hundreds of miles, to pay an expensive
lawyer. In the end he was fined. The whole affair disgusted him, but he
went through with it well, testified without attempt at evasion. It was
a pity; but evidently the other man was no gentleman.

"I acknowledged I was wrong," he told Joe Merrill. He honestly felt that
this would have been sufficient had the cases been reversed. In answer
to a question as to whether he considered it fair to place the burden of
safety on the other man, he replied:

"Among motorists it is customary to exchange the courtesies of the
road--and sometimes the discourtesies," he added with a faint scorn.

The earthquake and fire of 1906 caught him in town. During three days
and nights he ran his car for the benefit o