Of traffic at a crossing - and
every London crossing is a swirl of traffic most of the time - and
looks left when he should look right, and looks right when he
should be looking left until the very best he can expect, if he
survive at all, is cross-eyes and nervous prostration.
I lost count of the number of close calls from utter and mussy
destruction I had while in London. Sometimes a policeman took
pity on me and saved me, and again, by quick and frenzied leaping,
I saved myself; but then the London cabmen were poor marksmen at
best. In front of the Savoy one night the same cabman in rapid
succession had two beautiful shots at me and each time missed the
bull's-eye by a disqualifying margin of inches. A New York chauffeur
who had failed to splatter me all over the vicinage at the first
chance would have been ashamed to go home afterward and look his
innocent little ones in the face.
Even now I cannot decide in my own mind which is the more fearsome
and perilous thing - to be afoot in Paris at the mercy of all the
maniacs who drive French motor cars or to be in one of the motor
cars at the mercy of one of the maniacs. Motoring in Paris is the
most dangerous sport known - just as dueling is the safest. There
are some arguments to be advanced in favor of dueling. It provides
copy for the papers and harmless excitement for the participants
- and it certainly gives them a chance to get a little fresh air
occasionally, but with motoring it is different. In Paris there
are no rules of the road except just these two - the pedestrian who
gets run over is liable to prosecution, and all motor cars must
travel at top speed.
If I live to be a million I shall never get over shuddering as I
think back to a taxicab ride I had in the rush hour one afternoon
over a route that extended from away down near the site of the
Bastille to a hotel away up near the Place Vendome. The driver
was a congenital madman, the same as all Parisian taxicab drivers
are; and in addition he was on this occasion acquiring special
merit by being quite drunk. This last, however, was a detail that
did not dawn on my perceptions until too late to cancel the contract.
Once he had got me safely fastened inside his rickety, creaky
devil-wagon he pulled all the stops all the way out and went tearing
up the crowded boulevard like a comet with a can tied to its tail.
I hammered on the glass and begged him to slow down - that is, I
hammered on the glass and tried to beg him to slow down.
