abruptly. A stocky figure came dashing out of the Envoy.
"Hey, taxi!" yelled the flying newcomer. "Snap out of it and buzz me up to the Yankee Stadium with all you've got! I'm late."
Speedy looked at him. His heart stood still. His mouth parted foolishly in an awed grin. Surely he could not be mistaken. He had seen this famous man's picture often enough. It was, it must be—Babe Ruth!
"Say," said Speedy, almost afraid to ask. "You're Babe Ruth, aren't you?"
"Sure," grinned Babe. "And I'm in an awful rush too. Just found out my car was out of commission."
"Will you—shake—hands with me?" asked Speedy.
"Sure—if it'll make you get five miles an hour faster out of that coffin you're driving."
He reached over, grabbed Speedy's hand and gave it a he-man's grip. Then he leaped into the cab and shouted, "Come on now, big boy. Bear down and get going."
Speedy sat up straight at the wheel and stuck out his chest. Already several pedestrians had stopped and were staring at the famous Babe. Speedy would like to have lingered longer. But the Babe was already hurling further demands for him to "step on her." Speedy stepped. The car leaped forward, nearly smacking into the motor ahead. Speedy whirled the wheel, avoided catastrophe by inches and was up at the crossing just in time to get the officer's
