The driver, bareheaded and with the wind blowing his thick mop of wavy hair straight back from his forehead, glanced back with swift disfavor at the scuffling bunch.

“Hey—­you want to go in the ditch?” he expostulated, chewing vigorously upon gum that still tasted sweet and full-flavored.  “You wanta cut out that rough stuff over this way!”

“All right, Jackie, old boy, anything to please!” chanted the offender, cuffing the cap off the fellow next him.  “Some time,” he added with vague relish.  “S-o-m-e time!  What?”

“Some time is right!” came the exuberant chorus.  “Hey, Jack! u had some time, all right—­you and that brown-eyed queen that danced like Mrs. Castle.  Um-um!  Floatin’ round with your arms full of sunshine—­oh, you thought you was puttin’ something over on the rest of us—­what?”

“Cut it out!” Jack retorted, flinging the words over his shoulder.  “Don’t talk to me.  Road’s flopping around like a snake with its head cut off—­” He laughed apologetically, his eyes staring straight ahead over the lowered windshield.

“Aw, step on her, Jack!  Show some class, boy—­show some class!  Good old boat!  If you’re too stewed to drive ’er, e knows the way home.  Say, Jackie, if this old car could talk, wouldn’t momma get an ear-full on Monday, hey?  What if she—­”

“Cut it out—­or I’ll throw you out!” came back over Jack’s shirt-clad shoulder.  He at least had the wit to use what little sense he had in driving the car, and he had plenty of reason to believe that he could carry out his threat, even if the boulevard did heave itself up at him like the writhings of a great snake.  If his head was not fit for the job, his trained muscles would still drive with automatic precision.  Only his vision was clouded; not the mechanical skill necessary to pilot his mother’s big car safely into the garage.

Whim held the five in the rear seats absorbed in their own maudlin comicalities.  The fellow beside Jack did not seem to take any interest in his surroundings, and the five gave the front seat no further attention.  Jack drove circumspectly, leaning a little forward, his bare arms laid up across the wheel and grasping the top of it.  Brown as bronze, those arms, as were his face and neck and chest down to where the open V of his sport shirt was held closed with the loose knot of a crimson tie that whipped his shoulder as he drove.  A fine looking fellow he was, sitting there like the incarnation of strength and youth and fullblooded optimism.  It was a pity that he was drunk—­he would have been a perfect specimen of young manhood, else.

The young man on the front seat beside him turned suddenly on those behind.  The lower half of his face was covered with a black muffler.  He had a gun, and he “cut down” on the group with disconcerting realism.

“Hands up!” he intoned fearsomely.  “I am the mysterious lone bandit of the boulevards.  Your jewels are the price of your lives!” The six-shooter wavered, looking bleakly at one and then another.