On the highest, rear seat was James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri, and his Bride.
James Williams's face was recorded a little library of the world's best thoughts in three volumes.
James Williams, you would have guessed, was about twenty-four.
James Williams sat a girl in a loose tan jacket and a straw hat adorned with grapes and roses.
But if his description seems to follow that of James Williams, divest it of anything Cloverdalian.
James Williams. Between two ticks of a watch they exchanged their life's experiences, histories, hopes and fancies.
Donovan went to the hind wheel and looked up at James Williams.
Descended to the ground, James Williams faced his captors with a smile.
"My name is James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri," he said kindly, so that they would not be too greatly mortified.
James Williams's wife--his bride of two weeks--looked him in the face with a strange, soft radiance in her eyes and a flush on her cheeks, looked him in the face and said:
James Williams. Then she faced about and sat still while the Rubberneck auto stopped at the flash of the badge under the coat of the plainclothes man.
And then madness descended upon and occupied James Williams. He pushed his hat far upon the back of his head.