Under the guise of maintaining an agricultural inspection, the California authorities stop every car, search it, unpack baggage, fumigate blankets, ask questions, and inconvenience the motorists as much as possible.

I swung in close to the checking station. A man came out to look me over. I yelled at him, taking care to run the words all together so that he couldn’t hear anything except the jumble of sound as I stepped on the gas. He signaled for me to pull into the unloading platform, and I gave the car everything it had.

A couple of hundred yards down the road, my rear-view mirror showed me that a motorcycle officer was kicking the prop out from under his wheels.

I started traveling.

The motorcycle officer came roaring out from the checking station and my car started going places. I heard the siren swell into noise behind me, and let it get close enough so the sound of it helped clear traffic ahead. The officer didn’t reach for his gun until after we’d got pretty well into the drifting sand hills. When I saw he was getting ready to shoot, I pulled over to the side and stopped.

The officer wasn’t taking any chances on me. He came up alongside with the gun pushed out in front. “Stick ’em up,” he said.

I stuck ’em up.

“What the hell’s the idea?”

“What idea?”

“Don’t pull that line with me.”

“Okay,” I said, “you’ve got me. This is a new car. I just bought it in Yuma. I wanted to find out how fast it would go. What does the judge soak me, a dollar a mile over the legal limit?”

“Why didn’t you stop in at the quarantine station?”

“I did. The man motioned for me to go on.”

“The hell he did. He motioned for you to pull in and stop.”

“I misunderstood him,” I said.

“You bought this car in Yuma, eh? Where?”

I told him.

“When?”

I told him.

“Turn around,” he said. “We’re going back.”

“Back where?”

“Back to the checking station.”

“Like hell we are. I’ve got business in El Centro.”

“You’re under arrest.”

“All right, then, take me before the nearest and most accessible magistrate.”

“How’d you pay for this car?” he asked.

“With a check.”

“Ever hear anything about the penalty for issuing bum checks?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

He said, “Well, buddy, you’re going right back across the bridge into Yuma. The man that sold you this car wants you to answer some questions about that check. You thought you were being pretty cute, but you were just about fifteen minutes too early. They managed to get the check down to the bank before it closed.”

“Well, what of it?”

He grinned. “They’ll tell you about that when you get back there.”

“Back where?”

“Back to Yuma.”

“For what?”