“Dud Chandler,” says Marjorie determined, “I am going to drive the car today!  You did yesterday for an hour.”

“That’s entirely different,” says Dudley.  “I’m used to it, and Henry said I might.”

“And Henry says I may too—­so there!” says Marjorie.  “And you know I’m just crazy to try it on Fifth Avenue.”

“You’d look nice, wouldn’t you?” says Brother scornful.  “A limousine!”

“But Bud Adams let me drive theirs; in Boston too,” protests Marjorie.

“Bud Adams is a bonehead, then,” says Dudley.

“Dudley Chandler,” snaps Sister, her eyes throwin’ off sparks, “don’t you dare talk that way about my friends!”

“Huh!” says Brother.  “If there ever was a boob, that Bud Adams is——­”

Say, there’s only a flash and a squeal before Sister has landed a smack on his jaw and has both hands in his hair.  Looked like a real rough-house session, right there in the lib’ry, when there comes a call for me down the stairs from Mrs. Ellins.  She wants to know if I’m ready.

[Illustration:  Sister has landed a smack on his jaw.]

“Waitin’ here, Ma’am,” says I, steppin’ out into the hall.

“And Marjorie and Dudley?” says she.  “Are the dear young folks ready too?”

“I’ll ask ’em,” says I. And with that I dodges hack where they’re standin’ glarin’ at each other.  “Well,” says I, “is it to be a go to a finish, or——­”

“Come, Marjorie,” says Dudley, “be decent.”

“I—­am going to do it!” announces Marjorie.

“Mule!” hisses Dudley.

And that’s the status quo between these two models when we starts for the car.  Marjorie makes a quick break and plants herself in front by the chauffeur, leavin’ Brother to climb inside with me and the bundles.  He grits his teeth and murmurs a few remarks under his breath.

“Some pep to that sister of yours, eh?” says I.

“She’s an obstinate little fool!” says Dudley.  “Look at that, now!  I knew she would!”

Yep, she had.  We’re no sooner under way than the obligin’ Henry slides out of his seat and lets Miss Marjorie slip in behind the wheel.  She can drive a car all right too.  You ought to see her throw in the high and go beatin’ it down the avenue, takin’ signals from the traffic cops at crossing, skinnin’ around motor busses, and crowdin’ out a fresh taxi driver that tried to hog a corner on her.  Nothin’ timid or amateurish either about the way she handled that ten-thousand-dollar gas wagon of Old Hickory’s.  Where I’d be jammin’ on both brakes and callin’ for help, she just breezes along like she had the street all to herself.

Meantime Brother is sittin’ with both feet braced and one hand on the door, now and then sighin’ relieved as we scrape through a tight place.  But we’d been down quite a ways and was part way back, headed for Riverside Drive, and was rollin’ along merry too, when all of a sudden a fruit faker’s wagon looms up out of a side street unexpected, there’s a bump and a crash, and there we are, with a spokeless wooden wheel draped jaunty over one mud guard, the asphalt strewed with oranges, and int’rested spectators gatherin’ gleeful from all quarters.