A car was coming behind Casey much closer than fifty miles; one of those scuttling Ford delivery trucks.

It locked fenders with Casey when he swung to the left.

The two cars skidded as one toward the right-hand curb; caught amidships a bright yellow, torpedo-tailed runabout coming up from Main Street, and turned it neatly on its back, its four wheels spinning helplessly in the quiet, sunny morning.

Casey himself was catapulted over the runabout, landing abruptly in a sitting position on the corner of the vacant lot beyond, his self-righteousness considerably jarred.
A new traffic officer had been detailed to watch that intersection and teach a driving world that it must not cut corners.

A bright, new traffic button had been placed in the geographical center of the crossing; and woe be unto the right-hand pocket of any man who failed to drive circumspectly around it.