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 groaned as his ungovernable knees bent faster and faster beneath him.

It was nearly half an hour after he had left Imperia's house that, at a cross-road, he encountered a milkwagon propelled by a motor. The driver having hesitated for a few moments to adjust some disordered mechanism, Ambrose summoned enough courage to address him.

Are you going to Hollywood? he demanded.

Betcher life, son, replied the driver with that hearty, informal enthusiasm indigenous in California to bellboys, teamsters, and the like. Want to come along?

It was highly probable that Ambrose never would have discovered sufficient authority to make a direct request to this effect, but he was so relieved to have the invitation thrust upon him in so sunny a manner that he responded almost cheerfully: It would be awfully good of you. Just drop me anywhere where I can pick up a taxi.

Once they were seated side by side high on the front of the vehicle, the driver regarded Ambrose with curiosity.

I s'pose your car cashed in? he suggested interrogatively.

Cashed in?