But now she spoke. "Mother, tell me, do we have to meet
those horrid fat old Jews again?"
Mrs. Stebbins wisely decided that this was not a good time to
explore the soul of a possible Eastern potentate. Instead, she
elected to talk for a minute or two about a lawn fete she was
planning to give next week for the benefit of the Polish relief.
"Poland is the World's Bulwark against Bolshevism," she explained;
and then added: "Bertie _dear_, aren't you driving recklessly?"
Bertie turned his head. "Didn't you hear me tell that old sheeny I
was going to beat him to it?"
"But, Bertie _dear_, this street is crowded!"
"Well, let them look out for themselves!"
But a few seconds later it appeared as if the son and heir of the
Stebbins family had decided to take his mother's advice. The car
suddenly slowed up--so suddenly as to slide us out of our seats.
There was a grinding of brakes, and a bump of something under the
wheels; then a wild stream from the sidewalk, and a half-stifled cry
from the chauffeur.
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