"A great old guy—Pop," conceded Mr. Moore. "I wish I could have got a crack at the bozo that hit him." He manipulated the black cigar in his mouth silently for a few minutes. "Well, Swift," he finally opined, "probably you're a rotten driver and I'm a fool, but come on out and see what you can do. I'm willing to give any friend of Pop's a chance."
He led the way out into the garage. By this time only two or three taxis were left. Moore pointed to one of them.
"Get in," he told Harold. "Drive this 'bus over the incline and brake her coming up and down. Give her the gas too—like you was in a hurry in traffic."
Speedy climbed into the seat and grasped the wheel. The car was one of Moore's more ancient models. Speedy pressed the starter. The car burst into action with a terrific roaring of its motor and clouds of dark smoke.
"Advance your spark, you bum!" yelled Moore. "And don't give her so much gas."
Speedy obeyed. He manipulated the 'bus around to the front of the runway without any casualties. Then he shot the gas into her and fairly leaped up the incline. Halfway up, as ordered, he jammed on the brakes. But he did not throw them on heavily enough. The car started to slide back. Before he could stop it, it was off the runway and on the garage floor again. Without waiting for instructions, he tore up the incline again. This time he braked the car properly and went on over the top
