I lost count of the number of close calls from utter and mussy destruction I had while in London.  Sometimes a policeman took pity on me and saved me, and again, by quick and frenzied leaping, I saved myself; but then the London cabmen were poor marksmen at best.  In front of the Savoy one night the same cabman in rapid succession had two beautiful shots at me and each time missed the bull’s-eye by a disqualifying margin of inches.  A New York chauffeur who had failed to splatter me all over the vicinage at the first chance would have been ashamed to go home afterward and look his innocent little ones in the face.

Even now I cannot decide in my own mind which is the more fearsome and perilous thing—­to be afoot in Paris at the mercy of all the maniacs who drive French motor cars or to be in one of the motor cars at the mercy of one of the maniacs.  Motoring in Paris is the most dangerous sport known—­just as dueling is the safest.  There are some arguments to be advanced in favor of dueling.  It provides copy for the papers and harmless excitement for the participants —­and it certainly gives them a chance to get a little fresh air occasionally, but with motoring it is different.  In Paris there are no rules of the road except just these two—­the pedestrian who gets run over is liable to prosecution, and all motor cars must travel at top speed.

If I live to be a million I shall never get over shuddering as I think back to a taxicab ride I had in the rush hour one afternoon over a route that extended from away down near the site of the Bastille to a hotel away up near the Place Vendome.  The driver was a congenital madman, the same as all Parisian taxicab drivers are; and in addition he was on this occasion acquiring special merit by being quite drunk.  This last, however, was a detail that did not dawn on my perceptions until too late to cancel the contract.  Once he had got me safely fastened inside his rickety, creaky devil-wagon he pulled all the stops all the way out and went tearing up the crowded boulevard like a comet with a can tied to its tail.

I hammered on the glass and begged him to slow down—­that is, I hammered on the glass and tried to beg him to slow down.  For just such emergencies I had previously stocked up with two French words—­“Doucement!” and “Vite!” I knew that one of those words meant speed and the other meant less speed, but in the turmoil of the moment I may have confused them slightly.  Anyhow, to be on the safe side, I yelled “Vite!” a while and then “Doucement” a while; and then “Doucement” and “Vite!” alternately, and mixed in a few short, simple Anglo-Saxon cusswords and prayers for dressing.  But nothing I said seemed to have the least effect on that demoniac scoundrel.  Without turning his head he merely shouted back something unintelligible and threw on more juice.

On and on we tore, slicing against the sidewalk,curving and jibbing, clattering and careening—­now going on two wheels and now on four —­while the lunatic shrieked curses of disappointment at the pedestrians who scuttled away to safety from our charging onslaughts; and I held both hands over my mouth to keep my heart from jumping out into my lap.