be new. They don't have motorcycle cops up this way."
Speedy obediently notched up his protesting engine more, though the water was now starting to steam out of his radiator and every nut and bolt in his car seemed to be dancing around. He could see through the mirror on his windshield the two motorcycle bluecoats dodging traffic and hot on his trail. Only the fact that they were not disposed to risk their necks in the daredevil way Speedy was holding his out for destruction prevented them from catching up to him.
And now the gray mass of the Yankee Stadium loomed up. The bleachers and stands were black with humanity. Every "L" train was landing more hordes of fans. Flags waved gayly in the breeze from the ramparts. New Yorkers by the thousands were slowly winding up the runways toward the ticket offices. From the elevated position of the highway Speedy could see white-clad baseball players against the green background of the perfectly kept grounds.
With a final burst of speed they swooped up to the side entrance of the ball park and Babe Ruth leaped out.
"Good boy," he said, and thrust a ten-dollar bill in Speedy's hand. "Better beat it yourself for a while and wait those motorcycle cops out," was Babe's final breathless word of advice as he dashed toward the little gate leading to the Yankee dressing room.
Speedy could hear the roaring of motorcycles ap-
