the driver, "Beat, it, 'yellow,' with all the speed this can's got."
The taxi fairly leaped out from the curb and shot off down the cobbles. The traffic cop returned to his post. Speedy was thinking rapidly. "The old Lincoln ferry slip," the policeman had said, was the place where Joe had stolen the Sturges. Well, maybe a little trip up there would yield some information about a certain other stolen car also. It was worth a try. He would have to do something quickly. It was nearly three o'clock. On the previous afternoon at half past four he had made his last trip over the line with the horse car. By four-thirty o'clock today he would have to have the car back on the tracks on De Lacey Street and make a complete round trip or Pop Dillion's franchise would be forfeited! And Speedy did not doubt but what Steven Carter would be there promptly to report the forfeiture of the franchise if the trip were not made!
There was not a minute to lose! He knew where the old Lincoln Ferry slip, unused for twenty years, was. It was on the North River, at the foot of East Sixtieth Street, a good twenty-five minutes ride in a taxi which was the quickest way to get there, granted there were no traffic blocks, which was almost too much to ask.
A cab came along in a minute and Speedy excitedly hailed it.
