"But Mirabelle! We're more than a mile from the station!"

"We're going out to the vestibule, Theodore. I don't propose to get left."

A moment ago, Mr. Mix had been arguing that the smiles and sympathy of his fellow-pa.s.sengers were cheap at the price, but when he rose and escorted Mirabelle down the aisle, he was telling himself that the old-fashioned principle was best--the wife's property ought to pa.s.s under the absolute control of the husband. He was strengthened in this conviction by the fact that two fashionable young men in the corner were snickering at him.

"Home again," said Mirabelle, with a sigh of relief. "Home again, and time to get to work. And I'm just itching for it."

Mr. Mix said nothing: he was wondering how soon he could get to his private cache, and whether he had better put in a supply of young onions in addition to cloves and coffee beans. He hadn't yet discovered whether Mirabelle had a particularly keen scent: but he would take no chances.

"Stop staring at those girls, Theodore!"

"I may be married," said Mr. Mix, defensively. "But I'm dashed if I'm blind.... Immodest little hussies. We'll have to tackle that question next, Mirabelle."

The train eased to a standstill: he helped her down to the platform.

The big car was waiting for them: and as the door slammed, Mr. Mix sat back luxuriously, and beamed at the chauffeur. Yes, virtue had its compensations; and as soon as he had money to his own credit, he would figuratively take Mirabelle by the scruff of the neck, and he would tell her just exactly how to behave, and he would see that she did it.

But for the present--soft diplomacy.

Mirabelle clamped his arm. "Why, what's that policeman stopping us for, right in the middle of a block!"

"Search _me_...." He opened the door, and he leaned out, imperially.

"What's wrong, officer? We weren't going over twelve or thirteen--"

The policeman, who had brought out a thick book of blank summonses, and an indelible pencil, motioned him to desist. "What name?"

Mr. Mix swelled, pompously. "But, officer, I--"

"Cut it out. Name?"

"Theodore Mix. But--"

"Address?"

Mr. Mix gave it, but before he could add a postscript, Mirabelle was on active duty. "Officer, we've got a perfect right to know what all this fol-de-rol is about. I'm the president of the Ethical Reform League." She flirted her badge at him. "I'm Mrs. Theodore Mix--used to be Miss Starkweather. My husband is a personal friend of Mayor Rowland, and the Chief of Police. I demand to know the reason for this insult!"

The policeman tore off a page at the perforation, and handed it to Mr.

Mix. "Judge Barklay's Court, Tuesday, 10 A.M.... Why, you're violatin'

City Ordinance 147."

Mirabelle turned red. "Now you see here, young man, I know that ordinance backwards and forwards! I--"

"Try it sideways," said the unabashed policeman. "Ordinance says n.o.body can't engage in no diversion on the Lord's Day. That's today, and this here limousine's a diversion, ain't it?"

Mr. Mix cried out in anguish, as her grip tightened. "Ouch! It's a d.a.m.ned outrage! Leggo my arm."

"No, it isn't! Oh, Theodore, don't you see what it _means_--"

"Leggo, Mirabelle! It's a d.a.m.ned outrage!"

"No, it isn't either! Theodore, don't you _see_? The Mayor's weakened--they probably read your speech at Chicago--they aren't _waiting_ for the amendment! They're enforcing the ordinance--better than we ever dreamed of! And that means that you're going to the City Hall next autumn!" She leaned out and bowed to the gaping officer. "We beg your pardon. You did perfectly right. Thank you for doing your duty. Can we go on, now?"

The man scratched his head, perplexedly.

"What are you tryin' to do--kid me? Sure; go ahead. Show that summons to anybody else that stops you."

In the two miles to the hill, they were stopped seven times, and when they arrived at the house, Mirabelle was almost hysterical with triumph. Without delaying to remove her hat, she sent a telegram to the national president, and she also telephoned to a few of her League cronies, to bid them to a supper in celebration. Mr. Mix made three separate essays to escape, but after the third and last trial was made to appear in its proper light as a subterfuge, he lapsed into heavy infestivity; and he spent the evening drinking weak lemonade, and trying to pretend that it belonged to the Collins family. And while his wife (still wearing her insignia) and his guests were talking in a steady stream, Mr. Mix was telling himself that if Ordinance 147 was going to prevent so innocent an occupation as riding in a car on Sunday, he was very much afraid that life in this community was going to be too rich for his blood. That is, unless he were elected to be chief of the community. And in this case, he would see that he wasn't personally inconvenienced.

At half past seven in the morning, Mirabelle was already at the breakfast table, and semi-audibly rating Mr. Mix for his slothfulness, when he came in with an odd knitting of his forehead and an unsteady compression of his mouth. To add to the effect, he placed his feet with studied clumsiness, and as he gave the _Herald_ into Mirabelle's hands, he uttered a sound which annoyed her.

"For the cat's sake, Theodore, what are you groaning about?"

"Groan yourself," said Mr. Mix, and put a trembling finger on the headline. As he removed the finger, it automatically ceased to tremble. Mr. Mix didn't care two cents for what was in the _Herald_, but he knew that to Mirabelle it would be a tragedy, and that he was cast for the part of chief mourner.

"Well, what's _that_ to groan about? I'd call it a smashing victory--just as I did last night. And _our_ being caught only shows--"

"Rave on," said Mr. Mix lugubriously, and stood with his hands in his pockets, jingling his keys.

"Certainly! It shows they meant business. It shows _we_ did. We'll take our own medicine. And the amendment--" She broke off sharply; her eyes had strayed back to the smaller type. "Good grief!" said Mirabelle, faintly, and there was silence.

Mr. Mix came to look over her shoulder.

LEADING REFORMERS ARRESTED FOR VIOLATING OWN PET LAW

_Police Issue Over 2800 Summonses to Golfers, Pick- nickers, Canoeists, Cyclists, Hikers and Motorists_ including Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Mix

MAYOR PUTS OVER UNIQUE REFERENDUM TO SEE WHAT PEOPLE REALLY WANT

_Special Meeting of Council Called This Morning_

Entire City Roused to Fight Blue-Law-Campaign: Mix Amendment Doomed: Ordinance 147 Sure to be Modified

Mirabelle collected herself. "What are you standing around gawking like that for? Find out what time that meeting is. Telephone every member of the committee. They won't have any meeting without _us_, not by a long, long row of apple-trees!"

"Save your strength," said Mr. Mix, with a spiritual yawn.

"Save my strength! Well, what about saving my five thousand dollars for--for missionary work!"

"The missionary fund," said Mr. Mix, "seems to have fallen among cannibals. Save your energy, my dear. This isn't reform; it's elementary politics, and Rowland's used the steam-roller. As a matter of fact, we're stronger than we were before. If they'd pa.s.sed my amendment, a lot of voters might have said it wouldn't do any good to elect me Mayor; when all my best work was done beforehand. Now I've got a _real_ platform to fight on. And the League'll have a real fund, won't it? You put up forty or fifty thousand, and we'll stage a Waterloo."

"And you can stand there and--oh, you coward!"

He shook his head, with new dignity. "No, you're simply lucky Rowland didn't think of it a year ago. If he _had_, and--" Mr. Mix broke off the sentence, and turned pale.

"What's the matter, Theodore?"

Mr. Mix slumped down as though hit from behind. "Mirabelle--listen--"

His voice was strained, and hoa.r.s.e. "I may have to have some money today--four or five thousand--"