It was one of those palatial cars “of a thousand delights,” a new super six Hunkajunk touring model.  A couple of policemen, safeguarding the public’s convenience, had moved the Bartlett car beyond the main entrance in the interest of late comers and it was in this vacated space that the second medley of blue and nickel was now thoughtlessly parked.  No cars came along after it so there it remained with a little group of admirers about it.

The few loiterers in the lobby glanced curiously at the two young men.  These strangers strode in laughing in a way of mutual banter, as if their sudden decision to see the show was quite amusing to themselves.

No one recognized them; they must have come from out of town.  They wore khaki suits, with flapping brimmed hats of a color to match and their faces were brown with the wholesome, permanent tan of outdoor life.  They seemed greatly amused with themselves and their breezy manner and negligee which smacked of the woods attracted the attention of Bridgeboro’s staff of unpaid censors who hung out in and about the Lyric’s lobby.  But little, apparently, did the strangers care what was said and thought of them.

One of them bought the tickets, to the hearty indignation of the other, and they disappeared into the terrible fastnesses along Harrowing Highway where they tumbled boisterously into a couple of seats off the center aisle, “right within pistol shot of the bandit,” as one of them laughingly remarked to the other.

In the last reel the bandit was captured by a sheriff’s posse, the young school teacher from the east whom he had villainously kidnapped was set free and went to live on a ranch with the hero who also carried several pistols, and the detective whom the millionaire had sent from the east (and who likewise carried several pistols) became a train robber and nearly killed the millionaire whom he met in the middle of the desert (carrying pistols) and who killed him instead and was in turn mortally wounded by the partner he had ruined and who had nothing left but several pistols.

And then Scout Harris fell asleep, and slept through the first part of the educational films.  In a kind of jumbled dream he saw President Harding (with pistols) receiving a delegation of ladies (all armed) and then he felt a tapping on his shoulder.

“Walter,” Mrs. Bartlett whispered pleasantly, “if you don’t care about these pictures why don’t you just go out and curl up in the back of the car and have a real good nap.  Then when we come out we’ll all stop and have some cream before we go home and we’ll leave you at your house.”

Pee-wee was too sleepy to answer; his mind Was awake to but two things, ice cream and pistols.  In a kind of stupor he looked to make sure that Mrs. Bartlett was not armed and then, dragging himself from his seat he stumbled up the aisle, through the lobby, across the sidewalk, and tumbled into the rear seat of the big car that seemed waiting to receive him.  He was just awake enough to realize that the night was cold and he pulled the heavy blanket over him and was dead to the world.