go-ahead signal. He swung into Fifth Avenue with the uptown tide.
"Don't mind the lights. Take a chance. I know most of these cops," Babe urged.
Speedy obeyed. He notched up his speed ten miles faster than the law allows. A whistle shrilled. A bluecoat held up a halting hand. Babe thrust his grinning head out and shouted, "All right, Mike. It's me. Got to make the game." The cop smiled good-naturedly and motioned them on. Taking courage from this episode Speedy piled on more and more speed. The car shrieked and groaned. He dived from one side of the street to the other, trying to pass traffic. Babe was flung off the seat, recovered and clung desperately to the strap by the window.
At 60th Street a jam of cars held them up.
"Fast enough for you?" Harold turned and asked anxiously.
"I'll say so, brother," grunted Babe grimly. "If we're both alive when we get there, we'll be lucky."
The wild journey continued. Once above 125th Street traffic thinned a bit and Speedy pressed down more on his accelerator. A score of indulgent cops, at intervals, stepping sternly out to stop the flying taxi, drew back and waved them on when the familiar features of the Sultan of Swat saluted them.
But a half mile or so from the Stadium the law ceased to smile.
"You've got a couple of motorcycle guys after you!" Babe called out suddenly. "Speed up and fade them. They're no friends of mine. They must
