"If it does, we're both in the same boat," said Speedy.
He finally maneuvered up to the curb at the Union Leauge Club, having made a full turn in the middle of Fifth Avenue under the nose of a cop at the risk of his fenders and his license.
The old gentleman, still swearing, alighted. He drew out a well-worn purse. Suddenly he stopped, seized Speedy and cried, "I'm going to have you arrested. Just as I thought—you've no business to be driving this car. You've picked me up under false pretenses. I'll have you arrested."
Then Speedy saw that he was pointing excitedly to a sign hanging near the taximeter. "This Cab Out of Order," read the card. Speedy took in the situation in a flash. The "Out of Order" sign had been jolted down when he hit the bumps on 42nd Street. But he would never be able to explain this satisfactorily to his fare. And a broad-shouldered policeman, attracted by the old man's shrill cries, was approaching from the corner. Without waiting for his money, Speedy leaped back into his car, threw it into gear and shot into the stream of traffic.
"You can't get away," the old man cackled after him. "I got your number from the license in the tonneau. I'll report you, never fear. And I'm a member of the Streets and Highways Commission, don't forget that."
The green lights, Speedy saw gratefully, were set in his favor. He did not venture to look back until he was five blocks away. Then he started to worry.
