unlighted cigar stuck at a belligerent angle in one side of his mouth. His striped shirt received full rein for the display of its brilliant hues because Mr. Moore wore no coat and his vest was unbuttoned. As if to compensate for this state of undress, a slightly soiled derby hat covered his head, concealing his baldness.
"Good morning, Mr. Moore," opened Danny.
"Hello, Ryan," said Mr. Moore in a husky voice that would have indicated approaching pneumonia in anybody else. "You're late."
"I was out digging up a man for you to take the place of either Daly or Angelo. This is my friend, Harold Swift. He's a good, experienced driver and he's anxious to work for you."
"He must be a pip if he's a friend of yours," was Moore's unflattering reply. He did not apparently notice Speedy's outstretched hand. "Ever drive taxi before?" This was shot at Speedy.
"No, sir, but I've driven all kinds of cars," said Speedy recklessly. "Driving automobiles comes natural to me."
"H'mm," grunted the taxi boss. "I've heard of those natural-born drivers before. Generally they land in the morgue. Say, are you the Swift that used to live with Pop Dillon? The one they call Speedy?"
Harold admitted it.
"How's Pop?" Moore asked with a softening of his usual harsh manner. "I heard he got beat up yesterday."
"He's all right. He's back on the car today."
