I heard a lot of things in the next five minutes that no one but my dad could say without me trying mighty hard to make him swallow them.

And I just sat there and looked at him and took it.
I couldn't agree with him that I'd committed a grievous crime.

It wasn't much of a lark, as larks go: just an incident at the close of a rather full afternoon.

Coming around up the beach front Ingleside House a few days before, in the _Yellow Peril_--my machine--we got to badgering each other about doing things not orthodox.

At last Barney MacTague dared me to drive the _Yellow Peril_ past the dead-line--down by the Pavilion--and on up the hill to Sutro Baths.