Preoccupiedly he took a big handful of waste and began to polish the hood and fenders of the car.  His mother would want to drive, and she always made a fuss if he left any dust to dim its glossy splendor.  He walked around behind and contemplated the number plate, wondering if the man who was said to be “hep” would remember that there were three ciphers together.  He might see only two—­being in a hurry and excited.  He rubbed the plate thoughtfully, trying to guess just how that number, 170007, would look to a stranger who was excited by being shot at.

No use doctoring the number now.  If the man had it, he had it—­and it was easy enough to find the car that carried it.  Easy enough, too, to prove who was in the car.  Jack had named every one of the fellows who were to make up the party.  He had to, before his mother would let him take the car.  The names were just names to her—­since she believed that they were Christian young men!—­but she had insisted upon knowing who was going, and she would remember them.  She had a memory like glue.  She would also give the names to any officer that asked.  Jack knew that well enough.  For, besides having a memory that would never let go, Mrs. Singleton Corey had a conscience that was inexorable toward the faults of others.  She would consider it her duty as a Christian woman and the president of the Purity League to hand those six young men over to the law.  That she had been deceived as to their morals would add fire to her fervor.

Whether she would hand Jack over with them was a detail which did not greatly concern her son.  He believed she would do it, if thereby she might win the plaudits of her world as a mother martyred to her fine sense of duty.  Jack had lived with his mother for twenty-two years, and although he was very much afraid of her, he felt that he had no illusions concerning Mrs. Singleton Corey.  He felt that she would sacrifice nearly everything to her greed for public approbation.  Whether she would sacrifice her pride of family—­twist it into a lofty pride of duty—­he did not know.  There are queer psychological quirks which may not be foreseen by youth.

Looking back on the whole sickening affair while he sat on the running board and smoked a cigarette, Jack could not see how his mother could consistently avoid laying him on the altar of justice.  He had driven the party, and he had stopped the car for them to play their damnable joke.  The law would call him an accomplice, he supposed.  His mother could not save him, unless she pleaded well the excuse that he had been led astray by evil companions.  In lesser crises, Jack remembered that she had played successfully that card.  She might try it now....

On the other hand, she might make a virtue of necessity and volunteer the information that he had in the first place lied about their destination.  That, he supposed, would imply a premeditated plan of holding up automobiles.  She might wash her hands of him altogether.  He could see her doing that, too.  He could, in fact, see Mrs. Singleton Corey doing several things that would work him ill and redound to her glory.  What he could not see was a mother who would cling to him and cry over him and for him, and stick by him, just because she loved him.