The taxi which Speedy had hailed careened a little crazily up to the curb. It was neither a new nor a fast-looking cab. It was a Henry car of the vintage before Henry went modern. But the ruddy, Irish-faced driver looked good-natured and willing.
He protested a little, however, as Speedy fairly tore the door of his chariot off in his eagerness to get aboard and get started.
"Whoa, there, buddy—this cab ain't no spring chicken!" mentioned the driver.
"Well, she better sprout some wings then, old kid, because I'm in a terrible hurry. Go ahead—get started!' shouted Speedy.
"In that case you better tell me where you want to go. I ain't a mind reader," cheerfully advised the chauffeur.
"That's right," admitted Speedy. "Lincoln Ferry Slip—foot of 60th Street. Know where that is?"
"Sure. And there ain't anybody been there since the guy they named the Slip after, either. But that's your business, buddy. Slam shut the door and we're off."
"Give her everything you've got, will you? I'm in a hurry!"
