going to the ball game?" Moore demanded. "Don't you—"
"But, Mr. Moore, I can explain. I brought Babe Ruth up here and—"
"Yeah, and I suppose President Coolidge invited you in to the ball game with him, hey? Tell it to Sweeney. You're fired."
"Listen, Mr. Moore, I drove the Babe so fast—"
"You didn't drive him near so fast as you're making up this cock and bull story. Not another word, young feller—I'm going to get in this cab to make sure you don't sink it in the East River or something, and you drive me back to the garage as quick as you can without getting pinched."
"Won't you believe me, Mr. Moore, I—"
"Not another word!" bellowed Moore. "Get goin'."
Speedy, having something even more on his mind at the moment than his job, got going. The long ride downtown was accomplished without any more exchanges of pleasantries between driver and passenger. Speedy's mind was in a torrent of confusion. How he ever managed to drive fast and successfully under the circumstances, he never could figure out later.
But he finally drew up in front of the Only One Company's garage, jumped out and opened the doors. He had no sooner arrived inside and stepped from his cab when Moore, alighting simultaneously, ordered curtly, "Come into the office." Moore extracted the receipt slips from Speedy's meter.
Speedy followed the boss in.
