proaching and could discern the grim, dust-flecked faces of the cops as they descended upon their prey. Hesitating for only an instant, he leaped out of his car and ran. He sped around the outside wall of the Stadium until he came to the main entrance blocked with a solid mass of humanity pushing its way slowly up toward the box offices and the precious tickets.
Speedy ducked agilely into the midst of this heaving crowd. He burrowed his way in, frantically despite the loud protests, warnings and maledictions of the throng around him. Several hands reached for him to pull him back, but Speedy was quick as a cat.
"Hey, taxi, where do you think you are? Fifth Avenue?" called a rough, taunting voice.
Speedy took the tip and thrust his cap proclaiming his vocation into his pocket. When he thought he was buried sufficiently in the middle of the army of would-be ticket purchasers to avoid the inquisitive eyes of his motorcycle followers, he consented to stop shoving and allow himself to drift with the tide. In spite of himself he was soon again on the outer fringe of the mob near the wall, though very close now to the ticket offices. He could look down from the elevation and see his abandoned cab. Two officers were making a minute inspection of it. They wore the black leather puttees of motorcycle policemen. They looked inside the cab and all around it. They conversed together, then both stared up at the crowd wending its way into the grounds. They must have concluded that their prey was
