New traffic officers are apt to be keenly conscientious in their work.

At twenty-five dollars per cut, sixteen unhappy drivers had been taught where the new button was located and had been informed that twelve miles per hour at that crossing would be tolerated, and that more would be expensive.
Not all drivers take their teaching meekly, and the new traffic officer near the end of his shift had pessimistically decided that the driving world is composed mostly of blamed idiots and hardened criminals.
He gritted his teeth ominously when Casey Ryan came down upon the crossing at double the legal speed.

He held his breath for an instant during the crash that resounded for blocks.

When the dust had settled, he ran over and yanked off the dented sand of the vacant lot a dazed and hardened malefactor who had committed three traffic crimes in three seconds: he had exceeded the speed limit outrageously, cut fifteen feet inside the red button, and failed to signal the turn.
"You damned, drunken boob!" shouted the new traffic cop and shook Casey Ryan (not knowing him).
Shaking Casey will never be safe until he is in his coffin with a lily in his hand.

He was considerably jolted, but he managed a fourth crime in the next five minutes.