d
rebuked on every corner, so he complained; hampered and annoyed by
rules and regulations which desert dwellers never dreamed of.

Since he kept the optimistic viewpoint of a child, experience seemed to
teach him little. Like the boy he was at heart, he was perfectly
willing to make good resolutions--all of which were more or less
theoretical and left to a kindly Providence to keep intact for him.

So here he was, after we had pried him loose from his last predicament,
perfectly optimistic under his fresh haircut, and thinking the traffic
cops would not remember him. Thinking, too--as he confided to the
Little Woman--that Los Angeles looked pretty good, after all. He was
resolved to lead henceforth a blameless life. It was time he settled
down, Casey declared virtuously. His last trip into the desert was all
wrong, and he wanted you to ask anybody if Casey Ryan wasn't ready at
any and all times to admit his mistakes, if he ever happened to make
any. He was starting in fresh now, with a new deal all around from a
new deck. He had got up and walked around his chair, he told us, and
had thrown the ash of a left-handed cigarette over his right shoulder;
he'd show the world that Casey Ryan could and would keep out of gunshot
of trouble.

He was rehearsing all this and feeling very self-righteous while he
drove down West Washington Street. True, he was doing twenty-five
where he shouldn't, but so far no officer had yelled at him and he
hadn't so much as barked a fender. Down across Grand Avenue he
larruped, never noticing the terrific bounce when he crossed the water
drains there (being still fresh from desert roads). He was still doing
twenty-five when he turned into Hill Street.

Busy with his good resolutions and the blameless life he was about to
lead, Casey forgot to signal the left-hand turn. In the desert you
don't signal, because the nearest car is probably forty or fifty miles
behind you and collisions are not imminent.
West-Washington-and-Hill-Street crossing is not desert, however. A car
was coming behind Casey much closer than fifty miles; one of those
scuttling Ford delivery trucks. It locked fenders with Casey when he
swung to the left. The two cars skidded as one toward the right-hand
curb; caught amidships a bright yellow, torpedo-tailed runabout coming
up from Main Street, and turned it neatly on its back, its four wheels
spinning helplessly in the quiet, sunny morning. Casey himself was
catap