“Oh, but my dear girl,” protested Coal Oil Johnny, “the clutches on that car are something fierce, and half the time the intermediate won’t mesh.  When you’re lucky enough to get it in, of course you keep it in.”

“Yes, and get arrested,” said Miss Sinclair, “and give your passenger some disagreeable notoriety, not to speak of shaking up her happy home and getting her allowance stopped for a month.”

Mr. Bassity looked acutely miserable.  To have brought penury to his lady-love struck him to the heart.

“I’m the most wretched fellow alive,” he said.  “If ever there was a child of misfortune, it’s me.  I can only throw myself on the mercy of the court and grovel—­yes, grovel —­if you’ll show me a place to grovel and teach me how!”

“Have you anything else against the prisoner?” Inquired Miss Hemingway of Grace.

“About sixty-five other complaints,” assented that young lady.  “But I’ll let it go at this, which was the worst of all”

“Miss Sattie Felton, what have you against the unhappy wretch who stands trembling at the bar of justice?” asked the self-appointed president of the court.

“Last Sunday I was at the Country Club with papa,” said Miss Felton.  “The prisoner engaged in an altercation with my male parent on the subject of religion, said parent being a man of strong views and short temper.  Said parent, however, being a man of the world as well, tried to evade an argument and escape, but was penned up in a corner for ten purple minutes.  Said afterward that he had never been so affronted in all his life; explodes even now at the recollection; calls the prisoner a word that begins with a B, contains a double O and ends with R!”

At this staggering blow poor Coal Oil Johnny covered his face with his hands and groaned.

“It’s all true,” he said, “only I was kind of goaded into it.  It began by my saying that if religious people would only be Christians, too, the world would be a better place to live in!”

“The court is now going to get in its own little knife,” said Miss Hemingway.  “The court, in a moment of generous weakness, verging on imbecility, invited, or, rather, caused to be invited, the prisoner to dinner.  Prisoner, through the absence of one lady from the party, was placed next to a distinguished young sociologist.  Of course, in his usual headlong and unrestrained manner, the prisoner had to teach the distinguished young sociologist a thing or two he didn’t know about sociology.  Roared at him!  Yes, ladies of the jury, positively roared at him, and beat on the table, extra, with his fist!”

“But he was such an ass!” said the prisoner.

“No reason at all why you should roar at him,” said the court, “and disturb everybody and make them feel uncomfortable.”

“An awful ass!” persisted the prisoner.

“The world is full of them,” said the court “If you were to roar at every one you meet you’d never have time for anything else.  Life would degenerate into one long roar.  Everybody knows that Professor Titcombe is a ninny and an idiot, but the decencies of intercourse require you to say, ‘How nice!’ or ‘How interesting!’ to his remarks.