checking on this Carter. Come on, be a sport, Danny. Give me a lift over."
"Well, I'm probably a sap for doing it—but hop, in."
Speedy was in the tonneau of the taxi in a flash. Danny occupied a single seat, the rest of the space in front being taken up with a rack for trunks and suitcases.
Dan drove swiftly and in a few minutes they were easing up to the curb in front of the squatty structure with the dirty sign, "P. G. Callahan Association," on the door. A dim glow shown from the interior of the place. It was a dark, shadowy neighborhood, with the oily river a block away glistening under the lights of a tug and her tow. The vicinity of the Callahan retreat was occupied almost exclusively with lumber and masons' material yards.
No policeman and, in fact, no other human being except themselves was in sight. Dan stopped the car and they looked around for a few seconds.
"I'm going in," Speedy announced with sudden resolution and was halfway out of the seat before Dan could remonstrate. "Don't worry," Speedy assured his friend. "I won't raise a row. If anything happens, I can handle myself. You know that."
Dan did. Speedy was known as just about the handiest youth with his fists in De Lacey Street.
"Well, if you're stuck on committing suicide, I'm with you," said Danny cheerfully, crawling out from behind the wheel and leaping down beside Speedy on the sidewalk. Danny was red-headed,
