At the corner of the Plaza where traffic is heaviest, a dingy Ford loaded with camp outfit stalled on the street-car track just as the traffic officer spread-eagled his arms and turned with majestic deliberation to let the East-and-West traffic through.

The motorman slid open his window and shouted insults at the driver, and the traffic cop left his little platform and strode heavily toward the Ford, pulling his book out of his pocket with the mechanical motion born of the grief of many drivers.
Casey Ryan, clinging to the front step of the street car on his way to the apartment house he once more called home, swung off and beat the traffic officer to the Ford.

He stooped and gave a heave on the crank, obeyed a motion of the driver's head when the car started, and stepped upon the running board.

The traffic officer paused, waved his book warningly and said something.

The motorman drew in his head, clanged the bell, and the afternoon traffic proceeded to untangle.
"Get in, old-timer," invited the driver whom Casey had assisted.