Maxwell was running frantically and vainly down the street after his car, which was now going at a wild pace. From either direction on the cross street at the foot of the hill he could see cars speeding along. Who would know that the oncoming car was managed by a child who had never run a car in her life, a child who knew nothing whatever about cars, was too young to know, had never even been accustomed to ride in one, but lived in a little country village where cars were scarce articles? All this he knew because the grandmother had talked much to the youngster on the way down, and the child had said she had never been in a car but once before, but she wished she had one; she knew she could run it. Horror froze in his veins as he remembered all these little details. He had made running a specialty when he was in college athletics, but now, although his way was downhill, his feet were like lead and his knees weak as water. He saw himself a murderer. Every possible detail of disaster rose and menaced his way as he sped onward, determined to do all in his power for rescue. The blood was pounding through his head so that he could scarcely see or hear. His breath came painfully, and he wondered blindly how long this would last. Then suddenly he saw the long, clean body of the racing-car slide down the hill like a glance of light, glide close to the runaway car, then curve away and cross the street just in front of the oncoming trolley. He looked to see his own car smash into the trolley-car; but instead it swept around in a steady, clean curve that just cleared the trolley-car and veered away to the right. It crossed the car track behind the trolley-car, and circled around and back up the hill again, a steady hand at the wheel. An instant more, and the car stopped before him where he stood in the middle of the road, his face white, his eyes staring, unable to believe that the catastrophe had really been averted. He looked up and there sat Carey in the driver’s seat as coolly as if he had been taking a pleasure trip. “Shall I turn her around?” asked Carey nonchalantly, “or do you want to go back to the house?” “How did you do it?” asked Arthur Maxwell, grasping Carey’s grimy hand eagerly. “I didn’t see you catch her.” “Oh, just jumped her from Brand’s running-board. Dead easy. Guess she gave you a little start though. That kid ought to be spanked. I guess the lady’s pretty badly scared.” The lady and the “kid” were bathed in tears and wrapped in each other’s arms in the back seat. The child was experiencing a late repentance, and the grandmother was alternately scolding and petting and in a fair way to make the little criminal feel she had done a smart thing. Maxwell gave them a withering glance, and turned to Carey, who had swung out over the door and was standing in the road, looking at the car like a lion tamer who has just subdued a wild creature.