I was told that I was in time, and when I got my hand on the wheel, and turned the _Peril_ loose, it seemed, for the first time since leaving home, that fate was standing back and letting me run things.
Policemen waved their arms and said things at the way we went up Market Street, but I only turned it on a bit more and tried not to run over any humans; a dog got it, though, just as we whipped into Sacramento Street.
I remember wishing that Frosty was with me, to be convinced that motors aren't so bad after all.
It was good to come tearing up the hill with the horn bellowing for a clear track, and to slow down just enough to make the turn between our bronze mastiffs, and skid up the drive, stopping at just the right instant to avoid going clear through the stable and trespassing upon our neighbor's flower-beds.

It was good--but I don't believe Crawford appreciated the fact; imperturbable as he was, I fancied that he looked relieved when his feet touched the gravel.

I was human enough to enjoy scaring Crawford a bit, and even regretted that I had not shaved closer to a collision.
Then I was up-stairs, in an atmosphere of drugs and trained nurses and funeral quiet, and knew for a certainty that I was still in time, and that dad knew me and was glad to have me there.

I had never seen dad in bed before, and all my life he had been associated in my mind with calm self-possession and power and perfect grooming.

To see him lying there like that, so white and weak and so utterly helpless, gave me a shock that I was quite unprepared for.