deaf not only to the howl of the terrified throng and the curses of the teamsters who frantically pulled their horses to the curb, but to my warnings as well.  He swung the machine around the corner at New Street and into Wall as though it had been the broadest boulevard in the park.  He took Wall Street at a bound I was sure would land us through the fence into Trinity’s churchyard.  But no.  Again he turned the corner, throwing the Juggernaut on its outside wheels from Wall Street into Broadway as the crowds on the sidewalk held their breath in horror.  I, too, was on my feet, but crouching as I hung to the sides.  Thank God, that usually crowded thoroughfare was free from vehicles as far up as I could see, on beyond the Astor House.  What could it mean?  Was that divinity which ’tis said protects the drunkard and the idiot about to aid the mad rush of this love-frenzied creature to his long-lost but newly returned dear one?  I heard the frantic clang of gongs, and as we shot by the World Building, I saw ahead of us two plunging automobiles filled with men.  ’Twas from them the gong clamour sounded.  As we drew nearer.  I saw that these were the cars of the fire chiefs answering a call.  I thanked God again and again as I yelled into Bob’s ear, “For Beulah’s sake, Bob, don’t pass; if you do, we’ll run into a blockade.  If we keep in the rear they’ll clear our way, and we may get to her alive.”  I do not know whether he heard, but he held the machine in the rear of the other cars and did not try to pass.  Away we went on our mad rush through crowded Broadway.  At Union Square we lost our way-clearers.  As our automobile jumped across Fourteenth Street into Fourth Avenue, Bob must have opened her up to the last notch, for she seemed to leap through the air.  We sent two wagons crashing across the sidewalks into the buildings.  Cries of rage arose above the din of the machine, and seemed to follow in our wake.  Bob was dead to all we passed.  His entire being seemed set on what was ahead.  I knew he was an expert in the handling of the automobile, for since his misfortune, automobiling with Beulah Sands had been his favourite pastime, but who could expect to carry that plunging, swaying car to Forty-second Street!  Bob seemed to be performing the wondrous task.  We shot from curb to curb and around and in front of vehicles and foot passengers as though the driver’s eyes and hands were inspired.

Across the square at last and on up Fourth Avenue to Twenty-sixth Street.  Then a dizzying whirl into Madison.  Was he going to keep to it until he got to Forty-second Street and try to make Fifth Avenue along that congested block with its crush of Grand Central passengers and lines upon lines of hacks and teams?  No.  His head must be clear.  Again he threw the great machine around the corner and into Fortieth Street.  For a part of the block our wheels rode the sidewalk, and I awaited the crash.  It did not come.  Surely the new world Bob was speeding to must be a kind one, else why should Hag