The Crime

It was one of those big old Packards. Like a Pullman. One of the kind with windows like a showcase. The kind you step into, instead of crawling into. In the front seat, a chauffer. In the back, two elderly ladies, carefully isolated from the hired helmsman by a glass partition. Black dresses, white lace collars and cuffs. Queen Mary hats. Windows scientifically opened two inches as an official welcome to balmy weather.

Chatting cheerfully, they looked down on busy traffic and Harvard Square's varied humanity from their mohair perches. Especially amusing to them as they rolled peacefully along was a blond Harvard lad, tennis racquet under his arm and, mercy, clad in shorts.

They giggled at him--ah, those college youngsters, what they won't do--pointed him out to one another, licked their ice-cream cones, vanilla and chocolate doubleheaders. And rolled on.