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au=Russell Holman
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{{FreedImg
| file = Speedy (1928) frontispiece.png
| caption = {{Speedy (Holman)/image banner}} {{uc|Speedy (Harold Lloyd) in his sundae clothes.}}
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{{c|
{{xxx-larger|{{uc|Speedy}}}}
{{dhr|3}}
{{asc|Novelized by}} {{larger|{{uc|[[Author:Russell Holman|Russell Holman]]}}}}
{{dhr|3}}
{{sb|''Based upon [[Speedy (film)|the great comedy]] starring''}} 
{{uc|[[Author:Harold Lloyd|Harold Lloyd]]}}
{{dhr|2}}
{{sb|Produced by the Harold Lloyd Corporation 
A Paramount Release}}
{{dhr|5}}
{{sb|Published by arrangement with the Harold Lloyd Corporation by}}
{{dhr}}
{{uc|Grosset & Dunlap Publishers{{gap}}New York}}
}}

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{{c|{{sb|{{sc|Copyright, 1925, by}} 
{{uc|Grosset & Dunlap}}, {{sc|Inc.}}}}
}}

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{{c|{{asc|To}} 
{{uc|[[Author:Harold Clayton Lloyd|Harold Lloyd]]}} 
{{bc|
{{asc|king of comedy, who has made life brighter for millions all over the world}}
}}
}}

—

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{{sc|The}} real author of "[[Speedy (film)|Speedy]]" is Harold Lloyd. The famous comedy star, assisted by his very efficient staff—Ted Wilde, John Grey, Howard Emmett Rogers and Lex Neal—originated the characters and plot and developed them in their every detail for the screen. This book was written from the picture after its completion, although the undersigned author did have the pleasure and benefit of discussing its theme with Mr. Lloyd personally. As far as possible the incidents of "Speedy" are used here exactly as they appear in the photoplay./begin/

The undersigned is deeply grateful to Mr. Lloyd, his staff and the Harold Lloyd Corporation for permission to novelize the picture and for their splendid coöperation without which this book would have been impossible.

That this novel has caught, even in small measure, the buoyant spirit and gay entertainment qualities which "Speedy" displays on the screen, is the hope of

{{right|offset=2em|{{sc|[[Author:Russell Holman|Russell Holman]]}}}}

{{fb|
{{sc|Sound Beach, Conn.,}}
:February 11, 1928
}}

—

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{{sc|New York}}.—Subway trains hurtling through holes in the ground at sixty miles an hour. Airplanes winging through the blue at twice that speed with mail for Boston and Chicago. Four lines of motor cars skimming up and down Fifth Avenue as green lights flash on at crossings and reluctantly stopping to allow four similar lines to catapult across their bows as the green flares switch to red. Pedestrians risking their lives to scamper between the hustling automobiles and thus save a precious minute. More pedestrians elbowing their various ways past each other at rapid pace on clogged sidewalks. Tired, tense, worried faces. Rouged, sparkling, merry faces. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

New York. In a residential section near Columbus Circle a white figure spinning swiftly down the street on a bicycle.

As he sped closer, you saw that he was a darkhaired youth of some twenty-odd years, eyes merry behind a pair of tortoise-shelled glasses. He was dressed in white. White trousers, shoes and visorless cap, tilted jauntily on his brown hair. A large wire tray-like container hooked in front of his handle bars. This was heaped as high as possible

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with small, immaculately white packages. A little, neatly painted sign was fastened onto the tray. It bore the legend, lettered in dainty script: Smythe's Sweets Shoppe.

The rider was in a playful mood. Without slowing the {{hinc|breakneck}} speed at which he was traveling, he now proceeded to swoop from side to side with the bicycle. He breezed along with both hands lifted from the handlebars. He gripped the bars again, swung one leg over the saddle and rode with both feet on the same pedal. Then, performing what was evidently his masterpiece, he ducked his head under the horizontal main rod of the bicycle, followed his head with his body, emerged on the other side of the machine and triumphantly settled into the saddle into a sensible position at last. All without even breaking his neck!

For a miracle there were no pedestrians on that particular stretch of street. The youth was not showing off. He was indulging in his mad feats purely out of high exuberance of spirits. Vaudeville headliners with four-figure salaries could not do as well.

Now the wild rider leaned earnestly over his handle bars and summoned up even greater speed into his legs. He leaned in the approved racing style as he scorched around a corner. The street he entered was lively with trucks, taxis and pleasure cars. He darted in and out among them. But he had to slow down as the rear end of a huge sprinkling cart loomed in his path. He tried to pass this obstacle, but there was not room between it and

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the curb. The boy lustily squeezed the bulb of the horn on his handlebars. Finally the red-faced driver of the cart turned around.

"Nothin' doin', big boy," jeered the driver. "Keep that Rolls-Rough back where it belongs."

The cyclist grinned. He shrewdly gauged the space between the water-filled juggernaut and the sidewalk. Deciding he could make it, he put on speed. He edged closer to the rear of the cart. His cycle wheels an inch from the curb, he started to ease past. The driver of the cart, sensing that he was being bested, reached over toward a lever near his seat. No water had been issuing from the snake-like pipes protruding from the stern of the barrel-like vehicle. Now its hard-hearted chauffeur proposed to give this intrepid cyclist a drenching.

He turned the lever. The bicycle was exactly opposite the point where huge sheets of water usually flooded out. The driver expected his prey to be half drowned in a young Niagara.

The water swashed out! But, alas for the practical-joking keeper of the floods, it came from only one pipe. And that was the hose on the opposite side from his victim. A few miserable drops fell apologetically from the pipe near the curb.

The youth on the bicycle laughed aloud as he realized what had been intended for him. He was forging ahead, was opposite the driver's seat.

"Hard luck, old timer," the cyclist shouted sarcastically. "That cart of yours is only meant for alleys."

The driver turned redder than ever. His lan-

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guage was hot enough to dry up the water in his tank.

The boy on the wheel flipped around another corner. He stopped in front of a brownstone house and rang the bell. A pleasant faced young lady, in dust cap and apron, answered.

"Good morning—Smythe's Sweets Shoppe service, madam," said the boy, handing her a box of candy wrapped in art paper and a ribbon and sweeping off his cap with a courtly bow.

The woman giggled.

"Oh, you funny boy," she said.

The boy grinned. He ran down the steps and mounted his wheel again. He made ten or more similar stops in the neighborhood, at each one repeating his greeting and delivering one of the packages from his wire tray. Finally the tray was empty.

Always the boy traveled at a fast pace. He had finished his deliveries now and, as ordered by his employer, was hurrying back to Smythe's Sweets Shoppe. But suddenly as he passed an open lot en route, the only piece of unimproved land for miles around, he slowed down. His eyes were upon a group of youths of about his own age, playing baseball on the field. Opposite the home plate he stopped and rested one foot upon the curb.

The boys, {{hinc|bareheaded}} and coats off, were playing an impromptu game, six to a side. The cyclist watched one side have its innings. He followed every ball hit or fielded with eager, expert eyes. Baseball was evidently a major passion with him.

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Smythe's Sweets Shoppe was for the moment forgotten. The boy longed to run over and join the embryo [[Author:Babe Ruth|Babe Ruth]]s.

Opportunity came in the form of a cry from the upper window of an apartment house across the street. "Johnn-e-e-e-e! Johnne-e-e-e! Come home to your lunch!" in a woman's voice, wrecked the ball game for one player, the catcher on the side in the field. Johnny reluctantly dropped glove and mask and started across the street.

"Need a man?" cried the boy on the wheel at once and had picked up the dropped implements of war even before the affirmative answer came. The others accepted him as a matter of course, such is the democracy of America's national game. The opposing side was retired without incident, the newcomer having little chance to distinguish himself.

His own side came to bat, to the joy of the new recruit. Batting was really the part of baseball he enjoyed most. He had studied Babe Ruth. He knew how. He waited impatiently while two men struck out. The next two saved him from nervous prostration by getting on base. The crucial moment came. The bicyclist from Smythe's Sweets Shoppe came to the plate swinging two bats. He tossed one aside in the approved manner. He took the traditional hunching, menacing Ruth stance at the plate. The first ball was "right over" and he smote it lustily.

It was a noble swat. Too noble. The runners scurried around the bases. The batter rounded first and started for second. The ball traveled clear out

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of the lot and, as if aimed by an expert marksman, crashed through the exact center of the large plate glass window of the drug store on the corner!

There was a warning cry and in a second, as if by magic, the field was deserted. Except for the mighty hitter who, head down and oblivious of catastrophe, had turned third base and was headed home. But a few feet from the plate he raised his head and turned to see if the outfielder on the opponents' side had retrieved the ball. Instead he saw a fat, white-clad man rush out of the drug store, look fleetingly at the smashed window and then start running angrily up the street shaking his fist.

That was enough for the sandlot Sultan of Swat. He crossed the home base and kept right on going. He leaped on his bicycle almost in his stride and started pedaling madly. Only when he was three blocks away did he esteem himself safe. He slowed down, panting and a little white-faced, and rode decorously the remaining distance to Smythe's Sweets Shoppe. Here he dismounted and pushed his wheel across the sidewalk and down an alley to the rear of the shop. He entered the store by the back door.

A small, nervous man was waiting for him. It was Mr. Smythe, the proprietor.

"Where have you been all this time, Swift?" demanded this bird-like but shrewd creature querulously.

"I had a lot of stuff to deliver," said Swift, surnamed Harold and nicknamed Speedy, because of the speed with which he went from place to place,

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and also, if the truth be known, from job to job.

"That's no excuse," insisted the boss. "Oh, I don't know what to make of you young men nowadays. Here all the lunch-time trade is crowding in and Leslie is home sick and—"

"Who? The new soda jerker?" asked Speedy.

"I do wish you wouldn't use such a vulgar term," chided Smythe. "I want my fountain attendants known as soda dispensers."

"Well, how about me for a soda suspender then, boss?" suggested the smiling Speedy. "I'll take Leslie's place. I've watched those lads back there and I can mix with the best of them. This isn't the first time I've asked you for a chance to break into the big time sundae slinging, you know."

"Don't I though!" lamented Smythe. "You're always annoying me. Well, dear, dear, this is an emergency and I'll have to take you. Go back in the wardrobe and change into Leslie's uniform. Your own is very dirty. You must have been rolling around in the streets with it. And please stop that eternal whistling!"

Speedy obediently unpuckered his lips and walked briskly into a neat little back room. He was elated. His chance to make a name for himself in the soda world had arrived.

Three white uniforms, with Smythe's Sweets Shoppe sewed in thin red script on the front of the cap and on the left chest of the coat, hung in a neat soldierly line on hooks against the white wall.

Everything about Smythe's Sweets Shoppe, from

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the freshly painted front and glistening plate glass windows to this immaculately kept clerks' dressing room in the rear was neat, ultra-modern and expensive. Smythe catered to a high class clientele and kept the atmosphere accordingly. The fountain was marble, huge and shiny. Everything from ice water to nearly a full course dinner was served. The highly polished floors were filled with an ocean of gay tables and comfortable chairs. The place was open twenty-four hours a day.

After a rushing trade during the day and late into the evening, Smythe's was again filled after eleven o'clock by an after-theatre crowd that had made it a fad. Even at four o'clock in the morning you would find pleasure-seekers in evening gowns and dress suits consuming huge triple-decked sandwiches, costing a dollar apiece, and selections from the literally scores of different concoctions that a deft-handed squad of "soda dispensers" poured from the highly polished line of faucets. So many faucets that a plumber would go mad looking at them.

It was behind this soda' fountain de luxe that Speedy Swift, arrayed like the other busy members of Smythe's drink staff, now stepped. Smythe himself, watching him from behind the cashier's bars, inwardly quaked. This Swift boy was such a rattle-brain!

"Hello, Speedy. Joined the juice army at last?" a clerk asked as Speedy squeezed behind him, almost upsetting the ice-cream-filled sundae glass into which the questioner was skillfully spilling a gooey

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mixture of nuts and hot chocolate syrup mixed with marshmallows.

"Yep, all dressed up in my sundae clothes," chortled Speedy, edging behind other swift, busy "dispensers" up to the end of the counter near the door, the official post of the absent Leslie.

Speedy surveyed the scene in front of him. Smythe's was in the midst of the noon rush. The chairs around the tables were all crowded. Fast, sure-footed clerks were rushing orders from fountain to lunchers. The stools lining the counter were all occupied, and clamoring customers were standing two deep awaiting service none too patiently.

The heaps of sandwiches piled on marble slabs behind the fountain were fast disappearing. Electric toasters were toasting at top speed. Electric mixers were whirring industriously, flinging together milk shakes and other delicacies. Pound cake, chocolate éclairs and doughnuts were making rapid journeys from their glass-encased crocks to hungry lips.

"Young man, are you waiting on me or aren't you?" a fat, over-dressed matron overflowing her stool asked Speedy sharply.

"I'm not, but I'd like to," answered Speedy promptly.

The dowager glared.

"A chocolate malted milk shake and a ham sandwich," snapped the woman.

Speedy seized a nickel, plated container, sluiced chocolate syrup out of a faucet, ladled a slab of ice cream and spooned some malted milk. But when

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he turned to set the mixture on the whirring electric disk, he found they were all occupied. Undaunted, he snatched up two glasses, poured the brown fluid into one of them and proceeded to fling the liquid from one glass to another. As he warmed to this task, his eye caught the headline on the newspaper in which the head of the man next to his customer was buried. "Yanks Must Win Today to Stay in Pennant Chase," shrieked this heading. Speedy tried to read more, but a woman's scream stopped him.

Taking his eye off his task had resulted in his flinging the full contents of the glass into the irate matron's ample lap!

She rose to her feet, yelling and pointing to her ruined gown. The whole shop turned toward her cries. Customers rose from their tables. Smythe came running from the cashier's cage. The proprietor, gushing apologies, procured a rag as if from mid-air and industriously wiped the stains. Speedy's tared, panic-stricken.

"It's all right, lady. Send the dress to the cleaners and bring me the bill," soothed Smythe.

"That awful clerk. That loafer!" cried the injured one.

"I'll attend to him!" said Smythe, grimly.

Finally, appeased but still muttering, the abused customer was led to the door. Smythe returned, tight-lipped. He walked up to the pale Speedy.

"One more like that and out you go!" threatened Smythe.

Speedy was silent.

Smythe's Sweets Shoppe settled down. No ca-

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lamity is too great to deprive New Yorkers of their lunch. In five minutes Speedy retrieved his good humor and confidence. He jerked sodas, sundaes, frappés and phosphates with the speed and ease of a veteran. But he also took time to notice that the man with the baseball extra had left the paper on top of the stool. Speedy reached over carefully and took possession of it, tucking it under the top of the counter.

At three o'clock came a lull. For the first time in three hours Speedy was not only customer-less but he had washed and dried all his glasses. He felt privileged now to rescue his newspaper and read the story about "Yanks Must Win Today." Smythe had left the shop temporarily. Speedy devoured the baseball dope like the rabid fan he was.

Gee, they would be playing even at that minute up at the Yankee Stadium. He envisaged the scene. Perhaps Ruth was at bat, with men on bases. Would he catch hold of one? The pitcher—

"Young man, is this a reading room or a soda fountain?" interrupted a gruff voice in front of him. "Is it too much trouble for you to take a large order and have it brought out to my car?"

"Smythe's Sweets Shop service, sir," brightly replied Speedy.

"Bologney," remarked the customer.

Speedy picked up a pad and pencil hanging inside the counter and poised expectantly. But his mind was still up at the Yankee Stadium. The man started reading from a slip of paper which a feminine hand, his wife's, had written upon.
{{nop}}

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"Three chocolate sodas," read the man and glanced sharply at the soda jerker.

"Three home runs," Speedy wrote on his pad in a daze.

"Two fudge pecan sundaes," dictated the customer.

"Two two-baggers," wrote Speedy.

"A lemon phosphate and a milk shake," finished the man.

"An error and an assist," scribbled Speedy's pencil.

The owner of the thirst had been eying Speedy's writing suspiciously. He now leaned over the counter to observe it more closely. Then he seized the pad from Speedy's hand and read it wonderingly.

"What's this!" cried the man. "As I suspected—plum crazy! Where's the manager of this joint?"

Smythe came trotting up from the rear of the shop, attracted by the noise.

"What can I do for you, sir," obsequiously asked Smythe.

"Read this! Read it!" urged the customer, holding out Speedy's memorandum.

Smythe read. He turned to Speedy.

"You're fired!" he roared. "Take off your uniform and leave this store at once. Stop at the cashier's cage on your way out for what I owe you."

Speedy's face fell. But there was nothing to do but obey. He slowly retreated to the clerks' dressing room. He doffed his white suit and replaced it with his street clothes. He hung the uniform carefully back on its peg, and walked out of the

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dressing room and into the storage compartment next door. He thoughtfully fingered the shining nickel of the delivery bicycle which had been his during the past two weeks. He gave it a silent farewell. Then he turned and walked through the shop, stopping at the cashier window to receive his wages from a scowling Smythe.

"You're a rattle-brain, Swift," warned Smythe. "I never should have taken you in here. I got bad reports from the other places you worked at. They said you were too happy-go-lucky and they were right. You better settle down or you'll come to a bad end."

"Yes, sir," agreed Speedy, and for the moment believed that his ex-boss was right.

But out on the sidewalk he cheered up. Well, what was one job more or less? Jobs were easy to get. He had had a million of them. True, he always lost them, but then people were always misunderstanding him. Why, he could get another job that very afternoon. See if he couldn't.

With a sudden inspiration he pulled the baseball extra out of his pocket and turned to the want columns. He sat down on the bread box in front of the grocery store next door to Smythe's and read the closely set print of the "Male Help Wanted" news. There was only one that appealed to him:

{{letter|
{{uc|Clerks wanted.}} Previous experience preferred, but not absolutely necessary.
{{right|Consolidated Steel Corp. 14 Nassau St.}}
}}

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Speedy sought the nearest subway station.

A hungry-faced crowd of men, young and old, were waiting in the ante-room to the spacious offices of the Consolidated Steel Corporation when Speedy breezily opened the door and walked in. They eyed him hostilely, as job-seekers always greet a newcomer and additional competitor. He smiled back at them with confidence. He gave the impression that he had been especially sent to take the job by Charles M. Schwab or some other steel man. His bearing had its effect upon the underling who presently distributed application blanks among the suppliants. He handed Speedy one first. Pens and pencils worked industriously for five minutes. Speedy was ready with his filled-in blank before the others. He strode over the front of the line to hand it to the waiting clerk. Then he stayed there, despite the protests of the man he had supplanted.

Before an actual battle broke out, the clerk, noticing only that Speedy was the first in line and not questioning how he got there, opened the little gate leading to the inner office and motioned him in.

"Second office to the right," directed the guide.

The glass door to this sanctum read, "William Talbott, Office Manager."

The pale, thin-haired man behind the immense flat-topped desk was scanning his application blank when Speedy entered.

"I read where you advertised for me," sang out Speedy blithely.

"What do you mean?" asked Talbott. "I never saw or heard of you before."
{{nop}}

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"Well, here it is," persisted the youth, handing over the newspaper and indicated with his thumb the Consolidated want advertisement. "That means me. I'm the only man for that job."

The office manager frowned, then his rather severe face broke into a smile.

"You know, I'm rather partial to brass, though our business is steel," declared Talbott. "Your application, with no reference on it and indicating absolutely no experience in our line, warns me against you. But such confidence in yourself must be deserved. You're hired."

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{{sc|New York.}}—Bustling harassed men speeding hither and yon, clutching bits of paper in their hands on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Wildly clacking tickers emitting tape, to be seized by eager fingers, read by sharp eyes and then allowed to fall into white snarls in huge waste baskets.

Outside, Wall Street and Broad Street and Nassau Street, and all the adjacent asphalted chasms amid the tall cliffs of concrete and stone, black with hastening throngs. Fast moving crowds of men and women who not only pack the sidewalks but also overflow into the streets. Downtown New York; in the financial district, at the noon hour. Bankers, brokers, messenger boys rushing from their burrows to snatch a bite of lunch. Seemingly fearful that the world will slip into chaos in their absence from their posts if they delay a moment longer than necessary. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

A boy darted from the milling throngs on the west sidewalk of Nassau Street and defied New York's god, Speed, by stopping stock still in front of a red-headed urchin who, newspapers spread in piles in front of him and the piles held in their places against the swirling winds by stones, was shrilly shrieking, "Waddeya read! Baseball extra! Yanks Face Croocial Game! Waddeya read! Paper, mister?"
{{nop}}

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The question was shot at the youth who stood in front of the newsboy. The youth's pleasant, eager brown eyes were lowered upon a pile of papers. He was reading the headline: "Yanks Face Crucial Game."

He looked up as the custodian of the papers addressed him rather sharply. He flushed. He fancied he was being rebuked for trying to secure his baseball information without paying for it. He was right. He put his hand into the pocket of his well-worn coat and separated out three cents from the few coins he found there.

''"Sun,"'' he said pleasantly and held out his ransom. The newsboy stooped, flicked a paper from the top of the pile without disturbing the stone and delivered the almost wet sheets to his customer.

"Goin' up to the game?" asked the newsboy, feeling better now that the sidewalk reader had been turned into a paying account.

"Can't," said the youthful customer, his eyes still darting over the headline.

"Neither can I. But, gee, I bet it'll be a corkin' game," regretted the newsboy.

"You bet. The Yanks'll win though. Babe'll bust one."

The new owner of a copy of the New York ''Sun'' sighed. The noonday crowds kept streaming by. Suddenly remembering that he too must be getting along, he folded his paper under his arm and darted into the maelstrom of arms, legs and paws chewing gum. He was a nice looking youth of twenty-odd years. The lock of hair just showing under his

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straw hat was dark and a little curly. Alert, almost merry brown eyes looked out upon the busy world from behind tortoise-shelled glasses. He wore a gray suit that was obviously cheap and readymade, but neat and clean. But it was the face that made you look twice at him. It was not the usual downtown New York face—drawn, shrewd, sullen, irritable. This was a good-natured, fresh and somehow wistful face.

It was the face of Harold "Speedy" Swift, formerly of Smythe's Sweets Shoppe.

A block or two farther along on Nassau Street, Speedy edged again out of the sidewalk mob and passed through swinging doors. The region which he now invaded was one of tiled floors, white walls and ceiling. The walls were lined with glassed-in shelves containing edibles of all kinds. People were hurrying with empty trays toward these shelves, performing rites involving money in front of the shelves, filling the trays with food and drink and then dashing to tables. Usually several tables had to be visited before an empty seat was discovered. Success thus achieved, the fortunate tray bearer rested his burden upon the table and set to work eating as if every mouthful would be his last on this earth. Throngs continually passed in and out of the place. All New York seemed to be absorbing sustenance there.

It was the Automat, known facetiously in Speedy's office as the "Automobile Club" and the "Nickel Grabber."

Harold paused in front of the hard-faced gentle

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man at the money-changing machine near the door. He proffered this busy factotum a quarter. The man punched a button and five nickels sprayed down a metal runway. Speedy captured them, claimed a tray from the near-by pile and made for the white, glassed shelves over against the wall. He thrust two nickels into a slot, turned a handle and transferred a ham sandwich from its cosy white compartment to his tray. For a similar price he won a cheese sandwich. He squandered his last nickel upon a cup of coffee procured by holding his cup under a faucet, pressing the faucet and causing a muddy stream to jet into the coarse porcelain cup. With the fluid an inch from the top of the receptacle, the stream dried abruptly.

A pastmaster in Automat eating, Harold found an empty seat easily. He set the contents of his tray upon the table and shoved the empty tray under his chair. He propped his paper against the holder containing salt, pepper and other condiments. Then he devoured his lunch and the story under the screeching baseball headline at the same time. He paused to turn the pages of the paper, following the fortunes of the New York American League Baseball Club back into the sporting section.

The Yankees were tied with Detroit for the league lead. The end of the season was very near. Today's game would undoubtedly determine which team would face Pittsburgh, sure National League pennant winners in the World's Series. Excitement was at fever heat. Harold's nice eyes flashed as he read of the prospects of Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig,

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the Yanks' powerful sluggers, settling the struggle once and for all with one of their accustomed home runs at Yankee Stadium that sunny September afternoon.

Having finished the leading baseball news, he turned to the other items about the national game on the sporting page. He carefully studied the batting average of both leagues, though he already knew them nearly by heart.

At the tables around him other lunchers were also reading papers. But their interest was chiefly in financial sections, as befitted their occupations. A pale broker's clerk, chewing a toothpick, opposite Harold was engrossed in the account of how the New York Inter-City Railways Company, in the effort to consolidate its far-flung system, would probably seek to acquire the last remaining crosstown horse car line and replace it with electricity. He checked the market quotation of Inter-City stock and resolved to risk a month's wages in acquiring some on margin.

Harold was a Wall Street clerk too. But his passion was baseball. Possessed of a lively imagination, he could even now envisage the multitudes pouring through the turnstiles up at the Yankee Stadium. The rival teams would be taking the field about now for their practice rounds. Babe Ruth would pole a preliminary few over the fence to humble the hopes of the Detroit cohorts in advance.

"Hey, watcher self!" came a sharp voice from Speedy's right. Speedy had been unconsciously imitating the swing of the mighty Babe with his rolled

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newspaper as a bat and had nearly hit the coffee cup which his neighboring luncher was conveying to his lips.

"Sorry," replied Speedy, smiling but undisturbed.

But the spell was broken. He consulted his watch, drank the last of his own coffee, thrust the newspaper into his pocket and rose briskly to his feet.

Five minutes later he swung into the marble and brass entrance of the Consolidated Steel Company building on lower Wall Street. An elevator crowded with returning lunchers whisked him up to the sixteenth floor. Speedy smiled at the blonde chewing gum behind the combination information desk and telephone switchboard as he passed her and hurried through the swinging gate into the office. She smiled back, though she was not the smiling type. There was something about the blithe Speedy's smiles that made you return them. At the same time the girl felt like shaking her head a little dolefully. This good-looking young man had only been there a week and she feared he would not last much longer. He was too cheerful and happy-go-lucky to appeal to the boss, Mr. Talbott, office manager of Consolidated. Moreover, the office gossip was that Talbott had already reprimanded him severely upon several occasions.

Speedy hustled into the wardrobe located just off the big office and took his somewhat frayed working coat and green eyeshade off his hook. He changed his coat, donned the eyeshade and was ready for the afternoon's toil. Other clerks were

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crowded in the room shifting into their alpacas or pulling black sleeve guards up over their elbows to save wear and tear.

"Thought you'd be up at the game, Speedy," bantered one of them.

"Hasn't Manager Huggins sent for you to advise Babe and the boys what to do yet, Speedy?" asked another.

The remarks were good-natured. They liked Speedy despite his newness among them. But his predilection for baseball was already well known around the office and a topic for kidding. Speedy only grinned. He transferred his well-worn newspaper to his working coat and walked out into the office. He mounted the high stool and opened in front of him the huge book into which he was recording shipments of steel. He dipped his pen into the ink.

But his mind was elsewhere. After a moment's hesitation he pulled the newspaper out of his pocket and spread it carefully out on the ledger. Soon he was deeply engrossed in re-reading the account of the New York baseball teams' chances against Detroit. He finished the story. His mind was out of the office, up there at the Yankee Stadium. He was sitting in the right field bleachers, haunt of the Babe Ruth worshippers, located behind the patch of field patrolled by the famous slugger. Speedy always sat there when he went to see the Yankees play, both for reasons of economy and because Babe was his idol.

In his imagination he was ensconced there now.

-23

The score was tied in the ninth inning. And the powetful Babe was at the bat. One strike. One ball. Two strikes. Two balls. Three balls. Three and two. Everything depended upon the next pitch. Speedy clutched the edges of his high stool in terrible suspense. The white arm of the Detroit pitcher swung aloft. The snowy sphere sped toward the Babe. The Babe took a toe hold. Wham! Like a rifle shot the ball flew over the infield. Back, back the Detroit fielders scurried. The guardian of the right garden tore to the stadium wall and braced his back against it. In vain he leaped into the air. The ball sailed twenty feet above him. Right at Speedy! Speedy was on his feet, yelling, clutching with a dozen of the fans in seats near him to catch the oncoming ball and keep it for a souvenir.

Crash! Something smote Speedy squarely in the forehead. He almost fainted. He blinked. It couldn't have been the ball from the bat of the Babe. It would have killed him, and he was certainly very much alive.

Then he came to. He rubbed his forehead sheepishly. He looked cautiously around. A paper wad lay on the desk in front of him. One of the clerks, observing Speedy in his dreamy attitude, with his mind afar off, had hurled the missile. Speedy, grinning, turned. Every clerk within his vision had temporarily stopped work and was enjoying his discomfiture. One or two of them were guffawing aloud.

Suddenly they stopped. A buzz-buzz of warning

-24

sounded around the office. Every clerk turned abruptly and applied himself energetically to his task. Then Speedy perceived the reason for it. Mr. Talbott, the boss, was standing in the doorway of his private office surveying the scene sternly from behind forbidding gold-rimmed glasses. Speedy surreptitiously and quickly transferred his newspaper to his coat pocket and wrote figures rapidly and almost at random.

But there was no forestalling Nemesis. Mr. Talbott was headed his way. A sheaf of papers was in his hand.

Speedy was a little afraid of Mr. Talbott, as much as Speedy's training as a typical New York boy of the streets allowed him to be afraid of anybody. Mr. Talbott had been rather regretful about hiring him. He had asked Speedy's name and Speedy had answered before he thought: "Speedy—I mean, Harold—Swift." And Mr. Talbott, learning from Speedy's lips how many jobs he had held in the past few years, had said rather sarcastically, "Are you called 'Speedy' because you hold the world's long distance record for being hired and fired?" "No," Speedy had answered promptly, "I inherited it from my father. He's called Speedy too—Speedy Swift—and he was shortstop on the Yankees twenty years ago."

Now Mr. Talbott was standing by Speedy's high stool. He was a small, almost bald, middle-aged man, his face white with an office pallor and his skin tight and almost as transparent as parchment. Pinch-nosed glasses rode a thin, sharp proboscis,

-25

the principal feature of a face that was now clouded with vexation.

"Swift, how many tons of ore did the Milliken bill of lading call for?" Mr. Talbott asked sharply.

Speedy looked up, considered the matter a moment and said cheerfully, "I don't know."

"And when were we to ship that consignment of steel to Carey Brothers, in Boston?" Mr. Talbott continued.

Speedy looked at him blankly, sought vainly to fix the answer in his mind, gave it up and answered, "I forget."

Mr. Talbott nodded his head grimly, as if Speedy's replies only confirmed what he had expected. He glanced down at the paper with the baseball headline in Speedy's pocket. He recalled his clerk's actions as the wad of paper had struck him in the forehead. The Talbott jaws tightened. An ironic smile twitched at the manager's lips.

He asked abruptly, "What is Babe Ruth's batting average at present?"

A broad grin suffused Speedy's features. He came back without hesitation, joyously, ".356—that's counting yesterday's double header."

"And what is Gehrig batting?"

".362—he got three hits yesterday. And if he—"

"I suppose you also know who has stolen the most bases?"

"Sure—Ty Cobb. Up to yesterday he had stolen—"

Mr. Talbott held up a thin, impatient white hand to stop the rush of words to Speedy's lips.
{{nop}}

-26

"I know all about that. That's what you've written on these vouchers for Milliken and Carey."

He handed the tell-tale papers to Speedy. Sure enough, they were covered with baseball statistics.

The manager shook his head grimly and, strangely enough, more in sorrow than in anger. It was difficult to be angry with Speedy Swift. The boy's intentions were so obviously honest.

"It's no use," said Mr. Talbott. "You won't do here, Swift. We can't allow our accounts to be balled up this way. Your mind is not on your work. We'll have to let you go. You can finish the day here. But at five o'clock get the money due you from the cashier. You're through."

Before Speedy could offer explanation or protest, the office manager turned and strode briskly away.

Speedy's lips quivered. It was the old story. Fired again. Coming at this particular time, the blow was doubly hard. For he had only worked at the Consolidated a week. He needed money. He owed the hard-faced proprietress of the little single room he occupied over on De Lacey Street a month's rent now and she had said she would wait no longer than tomorrow, pay day. Moreover, she had asserted definitely, after this it would be "pay in advance or out you go." And there was the fifteen dollars he owed to Pop Dillon. Pop would never press him for payment, but Speedy knew that the old man needed money almost as badly as he did and he had meant to pay him within the next couple of weeks out of his wages at Consolidated. Now

-27

he would have to take up the old burden of hunting for a job.

What the dickens was the matter with him anyway that he couldn't hold a job? He tried to work hard and master what was required of him. He couldn't help it if he was crazy over baseball, if batting averages came easier to him than steel statistics. He hadn't cared particularly for this job at Consolidated. Being cooped up in a stuffy office all day long irked a youth of his quick, energetic temperament. Driving a taxi cab, for instance, would be great fun. He had even enjoyed it when he was selling papers down by the Brooklyn Bridge, until he had grown too old for it and Pop Dillion had persuaded him that it was high time he settled down inside and learned some more dignified business with a future in it. Pop Dillon and Jane would be mighty disappointed when he told them that night that he had been fired again. And that hurt.

Speedy sighed. Well, he might as well put in his time until five o'clock. There were a lot of entries to be made in that musty ledger in front of him. He bent over the ruled pages and went to work. At five o'clock he was still toiling. The other clerks put out the lights over their heads, closed up their books and departed. Speedy scribbled on. It was quarter to six before he had finished. He straightened up, stretched the kinks out of his back, shut up the ledger and slid down from his high stool. He walked over to the safe, swung the massive doors open and deposited the book inside. Then,

-28

entering the wardrobe, he changed his coat, rolling his working coat and eye shade into a bundle under his arm. Then he walked down the back of the toom toward the corridor leading to the cashier's office.

He paused, a dejected figure, at the time clock outside Mr. Talbott's private office, in which a light still burned, and punched his number. His glance wandered into Mr. Talbott's sanctum and met the eyes of the office manager, who had been observing him in a not unkindly manner. Speedy smiled bravely.

"Good-bye, Mr. Talbott," he sung out. "And thanks for the nice way you've treated me here. I deserve to be fired. I guess I'm no good on books."

Mr. Talbott smiled in return. Making a quick resolution, he called out, "Come in here a minute, Swift."

Speedy obeyed. He stood at the big mahogany desk of the office manager, like a chastened child.

"Maybe I was a little hasty in discharging you, Swift," said Mr. Talbott unexpectedly. "Perhaps you're just not adapted to the assignment we've given you here and you would be satisfactory in some other position. You don't like office work, do you?"

"No—I don't," said Speedy frankly.

"Well, you can forget what I said about leaving us," the executive went on. "When you report tomorrow, we'll try you on something that will take you outside and won't be quite so monotonous. I was young once myself, you know. I enjoy base-

-29

ball as much as the next man. By the way, you knew the Yanks won today, didn't you?"

"No! Is that right? That's great!"

"Yes, the Babe broke up the game with a home tun into the right field bleachers. As a matter of fact, if you won't tell anybody, I'll let you in on a little secret; I rather think I'll go up to the game tomorrow afternoon myself!"

"You're lucky. If I only—"

But Harold stopped his Niagara of enthusiastic comment. The office manager had resumed his accustomed stern expression and had apparently ceased to recall that Speedy existed. Speedy hesitated, then started for the door.

He turned to say gratefully, "Thanks for the second chance, Mr. Talbott."

The office manager did not glance up as he replied crisply, "That's all right. See that you take advantage of it."

-30

{{sc|A big}} white sight-seeing 'bus lurched around the corner into De Lacey Street, downtown New York. The 'bus was of the juggernaut type which, for some unknown reason, is in its idle hours allowed to monopolize the parking space along the traffic-jammed curbs of the Times Square section of the metropolis. With two or three fat ladies armed with tabloid newspapers—professional {{" '}}bus sitters"—planted in them for decoys, these elephantine joy wagons wait patiently until the leather-lunged barkers and mammoth sidewalk signs succeed in filling their leathern depths with gaping out-of-town visitors. Then they set forth on drab, jolty tours of Chinatown and rumble through the wilds of Brooklyn out to Coney Island, a jehu with a megaphone rasping out the points of interest.

The big white 'bus had been touring Chinatown and the moiling ant-like activity of the Bowery—dirty streets teeming with people of many nations, push carts, trucks, yelling children. Turning the corner into De Lacey Street was like passing into another world. For here, miraculously, was left a bit of the old New York. A clean, comparatively quiet street lined with the small meat shops, grocery stores, candy emporiums and notion salesrooms of solid Irish and German citizens. A single car track traced its way through the cobble stones.
{{nop}}

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The 'bus always invaded De Lacey Street on its tour. A quaint "point of interest" was to be found there. Today the 'bus was in luck. For, coincident with its arrival, the "point of interest" appeared.

Down De Lacey Street waddled leisurely a huge gray horse pulling a yellow horse car of the vintage of the nineties. The horse was well groomed, the car was newly washed, painted and repaired, but both horse and car were unmistakably old. So, for that matter, was the driver. An ancient of sixty or more, white of hair and weather-beaten of face, he stood solidly on the platform of the car and clucked his "giddy-yeps" to his steed the while he puffed upon a well-worn corncob pipe.

The 'bus roared slowly past this relic of thirty years ago.

"This, ladies and gentlemen," sang out the raucous voice of the man with the megaphone, "is the last horse car in the whole city of New York. It constitoots the Crosstown Railway, which is only half a mile long and is owned and operated by 'Pop' Dillon, the man you see driving the car. Howdy, Pop!"

The driver of the car nodded his head slightly, acknowledging the rather disparaging salute with considerable dignity. Then he yelled "Whoa!" authoritatively, as the bell tinkled above his head.

The horse obligingly and without regret halted. Pop draped the lines around the brake handle and walked rheumatically back into the car. A fat

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woman with a large variety of bundles and two small children craved to alight. Pop picked up three of the larger of the bundles and, ambling to the rear platform, stepped off upon the cobbles. He stood to one side awaiting the arrival of his passengers. Pop gallantly helped the woman down, then lifted off the children.

"Nice morning, Mrs. Johnson," he offered.

"Yes, 'tis," she said. "Thank you, Pop. It's a relief to ride with you after the stuffiness and rowdies in the subway."

"Thank you, Mrs. Johnson," Pop replied. "It's a pleasure to transport you."

He got back on the car again, walked to his position on the front platform and said, "Gid ap." The horse and the horse car plodded on again. Mrs. Johnson and her brood had been his only passengers and the car was now empty.

A block further along, the line came to an abrupt end. The track curved in toward the sidewalk, crossed it and entered a small wooden one-story building, the car barn. Pop drove the old mare into the shadow of the high roof and stopped. As he did so a pretty girl of eighteen or nineteen, with black hair, rosy cheeks and dancing eyes, stepped forward, a lunch basket under her arm. Pop leaned over from the platform to kiss her uplifted lips. The effort caused him to make an involuntary grimace and clutch his old back.

"Your rheumatism bothering you again, granddad?" asked the girl anxiously.

"Yes, it is, Jane," Pop Dillon replied. "I think

-i

{{FreedImg
| file = Speedy (1928) 2.png
| caption = {{Speedy (Holman)/image banner}} {{uc|Speedy and Jane in the big push to Coney Island.}}
| width = 600px
}}

—

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I'll make only one more run with the car today. Business is bad anyway."

"Why don't you hire somebody to run the car—or give it up entirely?" Jane asked, worry written on her young face. She spoke as if she were repeating and old request, with little chance of having it granted.

"Oh, I couldn't do that," Pop said gently, patting her on the shoulder.

"We could get along somehow," Jane went on impetuously. "I could go to work."

"No—no," Pop replied. "I'd be lost without the car. And, besides, these trolley lines are going to need this little patch of roadbed some time, and then maybe they'll be willing to pay us something for it. Just as Mr. Rockwell said. And we can sell out and go to the country."

"You're always saying that. I don't believe you'd even sell. You'll just never leave it."

"There, there, Janie," Pop clumsily strove to comfort the protesting girl. "And what have we got to eat today?" he asked brightly, trying to change the subject. "Just open it up there in the car and I'll be right back after I put the feed-bag on Nellie and wash my hands."

The old man hobbled over to an ancient oats bin and filled his horse's nose bag with a succulent mixture. He approached the blinking animal, removed the frayed straw hat that still absurdly fitted over Nellie's ears and fastened the bag on her. The horse started munching at once. Pop walked to a tap in the corner, washed his hands and dried them

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on a roller towel, then went back to the car. Jane in the meantime had spread a neat repast of sandwiches and cake, made by her own hand, on the seat beside her. Pop sat down with a sigh on the other side and dipped his gnarled hand into the sandwiches. Old man and young girl ate their modest lunch together in silence for a few minutes.

While pouring out the coffee from a thermos bottle, Jane observed, "I saw Speedy this morning before he went to work. He's getting along fine, he said."

"He always says that with a new job, and then the first thing you know he up and loses it."

"Oh, he's always all right," Jane said, "as long as he keeps his mind off baseball and doesn't let it interfere with his work."

"That's the trouble with Harold—he's got baseball on the brain."

"I guess he must inherit it—from his father. Haven't you ever heard from Mr. Swift, granddad, since that letter before he left for South America?"

"No—not for the last eight years."

They were both silent for several minutes, thinking of the strange circumstances that had made Speedy Swift practically an orphan at the age of twelve in the great city of New York.

Jane had often heard the story from her grandfather of how he and Tom Swift, Harold's father, had first met and of their subsequent career together. For Pop Dillon was none other than ''the'' Pop Dillon who, those among my readers who are on the shady side of thirty and real baseball fans

-35

will recall, performed up until some twenty years ago as third baseman on the New York professional team. And Tom Swift was that same Speedy Swift who came out of the Middle West as a rookie to take his place at Dillon's side as shortstop. A great combination—Swift and Dillon—cause of the frustration of many a bold base runner and slugger in their day.

Dillon was already a veteran when the eager and fiery Swift joined the team. Swift was at the start a rather cocky youngster whose supreme confidence in himself offended some of the more sensitive members of the squad. The tolerant Dillon, however, saw the streak of pure gold that lay beneath the newcomer's assertiveness and liked him at once. They became cronies, roommates. Dillon taught Swift many of the subtler tricks of the big league game. Swift made good from the start and was a fixture on the New York club for two years. After the first year Dillon, already too old for the game and slowing up fast, was released and replaced by a younger man. But the two kept up their friendship, Pop being almost a daily visitor at the New York ball park when Speedy Swift and the team were playing at home.

For Pop Dillon, nearly forty at the time of his release from the New York team, old age for a professional ball player, was unsuccessful in selling his services to another major league club and a certain pride prevented him from descending to a berth in the minors. So, ill fitted for any other form of employment, he had much leisure at his disposal,

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the while his small store of savings were rapidly becoming depleted.

Pop well recalled the early autumn afternoon when Speedy Swift, the younger, was born. It was the year after Pop left the New York team and the second season of Swift's appearance with them.

Swift had not been going well the last month of that summer, after his meteoric career of the previous season. The papers and Manager McGinnis were remarking freely about it. Pop Dillon knew the reason. Tom Swift was worrying. Tom's wife, back in the small Iowa town whence he had come, was not well. Tom had tried to make a flying visit to her on the occasion when the New York team played in St. Louis or Chicago, but he was unsuccessful in getting away. Ball team officials in those days were very strict about granting leaves of absence.

In spite of the rather erratic work of their shortstop in the last weeks of the league race, New York that year landed in the World's Series. Though it meant extra money to him, Tom Swift in his heart was not glad. His wife was worse and he had counted on getting back to her immediately after the close of the team's schedule of games. Now he must remain away for another week or so.

The New York nine and its World's Series opponent that year were very evenly matched. The Series see-sawed for the first six games, each team winning three, with Tom Swift fretting more and more as each day went by. On the afternoon of the seventh and final game, just as the teams were

-37

taking the field, Swift received a telegram. It read:

Wife's condition serious. Come home if possible.

The wire was signed by the name of the family doctor back in Iowa.

Swift turned pale and hesitated. For a moment he had an impulse to throw down his glove, dash for the clubhouse, change his clothes and board a train for the West at once. But to do so would cripple his team in the game. His substitute was a raw rookie. The game would be lost and Tom Swift, on top of a month of indifferent performance, would be blamed for it. He had had telegrams from his wife's bedside before, bespeaking a serious condition. And always she had recovered. Two hours more now would make no difference. He would board a train that night for home and collect his World's Series money later.

So, arguing in spite of himself, he played in the game. What happened is history. His mind in Iowa, Swift was an abject failure at the bat. His fatal fumble of a hot liner in the ninth inning cost New York the world's championship. To cap the climax, he did not wait to listen to Manager McGinnis as the latter roared censure, but instead tore for his locker to change into street clothes.

A fatal telegram awaited him there. It said that his wife was dead and that he was the father of a son. Broad shouldered Tom Swift sat in his underwear in front of his locker and sobbed as if his heart would break. His teammates stood helplessly

-38

by for a while. Then two or three of them ventured up, patted him on the back and told him not to worry, that it would be all right, that it would be a different story next year.

They thought he was crying because he had lost the ball game.

Tom Swift was notified of his release from the New York baseball club that winter.

Pop Dillon heard from him two or three times the year following. Swift was playing ball with a minor league outfit in the Middle West and a maiden sister had charge of the baby, who was named Harold. Then the letters, which had hinted that all was not going well with the Swifts, suddenly stopped.

Pop Dillon meantime had worries of his own those days. The aftermath of the business panic of 1907 was still affecting New York and an ex-ball player of forty-two years with no previous industrial experience was finding it very difficult to secure steady employment. For weeks that winter Pop walked the streets looking for employment.

One cold January morning, with snow on the ground and a gray, somber sky overhead, he was sitting on a bench near the Battery, the southernmost tip of Manhattan, staring into the fog that hovered over the river and hid Governor's Island. Pop was turning things over in his discouraged brain.

A mournful noise of fog horns penetrated the gray curtain over the river ever and again. The toots of the ferry boats, the shrill pipings of tugs

-39

and, once in a great while, the mammoth blast of an outward bound liner.

Pop dimly made out the dark hulk of a ferry boat to Brooklyn starting out from its pier just to the left of him. The boat was sounding its fog horn steadily. Suddenly the monotonous tooting changed to staccato blasts of alarm. The warning wails of a second vessel shrieked just off the starboard bow of the outgoing ferry. Too late! Pop sprang up in alarm out of his apathy as he saw through the fog screen the two black masses closing in on each other. Fog and current had conspired to bring disaster.

There was a splintering crash mingled with the shouting and cries of human beings.

Pop ran and joined the mob that was rushing through the ferry house out to the dock whence the ill-fated boat had just departed. A few more adventurous ones mounted to the pilings jutting out into the river and ran out on them as far as they could go. Pop was among these. The two colliding vessels, locked in a firm grip, were drifting. Boats, sounding gongs, whistles and horns, were rushing toward them. There seemed no immediate danger. Apparently nobody was overboard. Shore was only a hundred yards off in the direction the wounded boats were floating. Even if they were sinking, they could be beached before that fatality happened.

The little knot of men, huddling on the pilings and shivering in the damp January cold, stood watching while rescuing tugs hovered around the accident. Seemingly Pop alone detected the faint

-40

cry for help from the dark waters beneath them! The cry sounded about twenty yards off in the direction of the hub-bub in the river.

Always of an impetuous nature, Pop, without hesitation, threw off his tattered overcoat and hat and leaped into the cold waters. The shock of them made him gasp for an instant. Then he forged out with a lusty stroke in the direction whence the cry had come. For two or three minutes that seemed an eternity he groped around. Then to his right he heard sounds of a human being floundering in the water. He shot over toward the sound and had the satisfaction of clutching and seizing in a firm grip the body of a man of considerable bulk and quite alive, though nearly exhausted.

"Grab hold of me!" Pop panted. "Can you understand?"

The man evidently did for he put his hands on Pop's shoulders. The ex-ball player struck out for the piling, reaching it finally with considerable effort and when all in. Somebody had had sense enough to run for a life preserver. This was now hurled in the direction of Pop. With its aid Pop scrambled with his burden up onto the piling. There a policeman took them in charge and hurried both through the crowd that had now gathered and into the waiting room of the ferry house. The officer chased the curiosity seekers and closed the doors.

"Now, what are youse fellows' names?" asked the cop, producing a notebook and a stub of a pencil.
{{nop}}

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The rescued man had by this time recovered his breath and some of his dignity, though he was pale of face behind his flowing gray whiskers, and soaking wet. As indeed was the tired Pop, who had not been eating too regularly of late and was feeling a little weak in the stomach.

"Can't you wait for that stuff?" asked the man snatched from the watery grave. "You see we're both half dead and wet to the skins."

"I gotta have the names," insisted the policeman.

"All right. I'm William Rockwell, president of the Crosstown Railway {{SIC|Company. "I|Company. I}} was on the bow of the Brooklyn ferry and was knocked overboard. And this man here is a hero if there ever was one." He put a kindly if heavy hand on Pop's shoulder.

Though he did not realize it at the time, with those appreciative words and that clasp on the back Pop Dillon was fixed for life.

Pop blinked. He had heard of William Rockwell. Rockwell was sole owner of a horse car line operating downtown New York. The man was tich, though not as rich as he had been before the electric railways, the elevated system and the subways put horse cars out of date and largely out of business. Rockwell's cars now ran on only three or four streets and there were rumors that even these horse-drawn vehicles remaining were soon to give way to electricity.

By this time the mob outside had dispersed. The policeman, having secured his data and making certain rescued and rescuer were all right, had left.

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Rockwell led the way to a taxi cab and insisted that Pop enter with him. A ride uptown brought them to Rockwell's brownstone mansion just off Fifth Avenue. Pop was given the most wonderful hot repast he had ever eaten and a new suit of clothes. Also a job. He became motorman of a Crosstown Railways horse car operating over De Lacey Street.

Ten years later, when William Rockwell died, the half mile or more of trackage set in the cobbles of De Lacey Street and the ancient horse car and animal operated by Pop Dillon were the only properties still owned by the Crosstown Railways Company. All the rest had succumbed to the power lines. Rockwell's fortune, due to unwise investments, had dwindled to nothing. The brownstone mansion went to his creditors. The Crosstown Railways Company went to Pop Dillon.

"Hold onto it," Rockwell warned Pop a few hours before the magnate died. "That franchise will be valuable some day. The Inter-City people will need that half mile of track so they can hitch up their system properly. They'll come after you to sell and you can get some real money for it. Meantime, remember that the franchise calls for at least: one round trip a day to be made over the line. Make that trip if you have to do it for years with an empty car. Make the trip and keep the franchise."

For ten more years now Pop Dillon had been making the trip. And the car, as Rockwell had predicted, was on many occasions empty. Pop Dillon had become a familiar figure in the De Lacey

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Street neighborhood, a region still retaining some of the quaintness and friendly feeling of Old New York, though the tenement districts were encroaching upon it block by block. The neighborhood knew and liked Pop. They went out of their way to ride in his car and hand him the nickels he needed so badly.

At night when Nellie, Pop's ancient mare, was testing in her stall and the anachronistic vehicle she pulled stood in the shadows of the car barn's leaky roof, the men of De Lacey Street often assembled in the car to play pinochle, talk and smoke their pipes with Pop. It was a sort of club house on wheels.

In the twelfth year of Pop's career as driver of the horse car, his granddaughter, Jane, had come to live with him. Jane was then a bright-eyed, darkhaired girl of ten. Her folks had a small farm upstate in Pennsylvania and it was partly to relieve her hard-working father of a mouth to feed and partly to keep house for Pop, who was growing steadily older and unable to take care of himself, that she had come. She was the apple of his eye. He had now for five years resisted her importunities that she go to work and help earn money for their support. He had protested that he was well able to take care of both of them financially, though he had within the last few days been forced to yield to her at least to the extent of allowing her to rent out the spare room in the tiny flat they occupied on De Lacey Street. Jane was even now looking for a boarder.
{{nop}}

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Jane was not Pop's only ward. Within a month after she had come to live in New York, Tom Swift broke the long years of silence and wrote to Pop. Things were still not breaking right for him, Tom said. For years he had been living a hand-to-mouth existence in various parts of the country, earning just enough to support himself and his son, Harold, now a boy of twelve years. His baseball ability seemingly left him when he was released from the New York team. He gave up the game after two years in the minor leagues and tried to learn several trades, to little avail.

Now he had an opportunity to join a company that operated nitrate mines in Chile and wanted to send him there. The pay was high, because it was difficult to find men willing to go down there and endure the hardships involved. But, Swift felt, it was his last chance and he was eager to accept it. The one thing causing him to hesitate was Harold. He did not want to take the boy with him. First, there was the expense involved and then, he knew, Chile and the life he would be forced to lead there would not be good for a boy of twelve. He wondered if Pop would be willing to allow the boy to come to New York and live with him until Harold was old enough to get out and make his own way. The older Swift would, he promised, make periodical remittances of money for the boy's keep as soon as he got settled in Chile.

"He's a good, bright boy," Swift wrote. "Mischievous and maybe a little rattle-brained, but what healthy youngster isn't? He claims he's going to

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be a ball player, like me, some day. He's crazy about baseball. Keeps asking me questions all the time about the game and knows the scores and averages backwards. I've tried to get his mind off it. You and I know professional baseball for the players as a tragedy. The clubs take the best that's in you, then cast you out into the world helpless just when you ought to be in your prime. I guess you can knock baseball out of his head just as you knocked it into mine when I joined the Highlanders a green recruit."

So, one bright May morning, Harold and his frayed suitcase came to join the menage of Pop and Jane. He had twenty-five dollars with him, which he turned over to Pop, and that was the last money Tom Swift ever gave the old man for the boy's support. A deep silence closed around the elder Swift. Letters sent to the address in Chile came back unopened. And Harold Swift, nicknamed Speedy at once by Pop after the boy's father, took up the life of a boy of the New York streets.

He played hop scotch and kick the stick on the cobbles of De Lacey Street. He invaded the Bowery with his boy friends and fought the tough gangs there. He was kept in school for a few years by Pop's brute force. He waxed strong and healthy and wise in the ways of New York boyhood. At the age of fourteen he was selling papers at the corner of De Lacey and Candler Streets. At fifteen he was errand boy for several firms in quick succession. Speedy was willing to work, but his high spirits were continually bringing the wrath of

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his superiors down upon him. A natural born practical joker, his jokes nearly always ended in his being fired again. And at all times his real interest was in America's national game of baseball.

In winter Speedy devoured the news of the baseball deals and the league meetings. In the spring his mind was with the players in the training camps. In summer he followed the major league races keenly day by day and attended the games by hook or crook whenever he possibly could. In the fall he was all agog over the World's Series. He played ball himself in De Lacey Street and his only regret in not going on with his schooling was that he was thus denied a possible chance to pursue his love for the game on a regular diamond with real grass and everything.

Pop and Jane were both very fond of the boy. They were also worried about him. At the time of our story he was twenty-two. Jane was eighteen but felt much older than that, exercising as she did a maternal care over two men. It was time, Jane and her grandfather agreed, that Harold should settle down. Speedy had many times agreed with them. His good looks and good nature won him jobs easily, many of them quite good jobs. But his obsession for baseball, his practical jokes and his restlessness lost them for him.

Lately he had given up occupying the spare room with the Dillons, reluctantly but firmly, because he had argued that they could rent it out to somebody for a much larger sum than he could pay. He knew they needed the money. He did not want to burden

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them. He had taken a smaller and cheaper room down the street in a boarding house kept by a widow named Feeley. But he continued to visit the Dillons practically every day. He was still almost one of the family.

Harold loved Pop Dillon as if the latter were his own grandfather as well as Jane's. As for Jane, though he had long regarded her as a sister, he had for a year or two back realized that his attitude toward her had changed to something warmer. In his candid moments he now acknowledged to himself that he was in love with her, would ask her to marry him if he could ever settle down into a good job so that he could support her. As for Jane, she was somewhat uncertain of her true feelings toward Harold. Her attitude was half that of a mother and half of—well, she didn't quite know. She liked being with him. He was so lively and good-natured and eager to help her. But he was also such a harum-scarum, such a kid. She ''did'' so wish he would land a good job and stick to it, grow up.

Pop Dillon, looking on from his majestic eminence of sixty-four years, was vaguely uneasy about the two young people of his heart. He supposed some day they would fall in love with each other, if they weren't in that beatific state already. He half hoped for it and half feared it. He would certainly not consent to Speedy thinking seriously of marrying Jane in the boy's present precarious financial and business position. Darn him, why didn't he go to work in earnest like other young fellows!

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There was young Tow Feeley, the widow's son, earning his twelve dollars a day as a plumber week in and week out. There were dozens of other youths around the block, boys Harold had romped with, settled down into good paying situations.

It was no wonder that Harold was the chief source of conversation when Pop and Jane sat down together to these daily lunches in the old street car. And they were quite justified in the note of impatience with him that tinctured their talk.

For his future actions concerned them both deeply—even more deeply than they suspected—as oncoming events were to prove.

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{{sc|In}} the outer sanctuary guarding the executive offices of the Inter-City Railways Company, on lower Broadway, a fat middle-aged man and a lean young man occupied respectively the chair to the immediate right and the chair to the just as immediate left of red-headed Tess O'Malley, custodian of the switchboard. Both were very keen-eyed gentlemen who kept glancing alternately to a door in front of them marked "Private," from behind which came the rumble of men's voices, and then to the lone telephone resting atop Miss O'Malley's cabinet of plugs and wires.

Outwardly polite and nonchalant toward each other, the fat man was in his mind trying desperately to work out a plan whereby he might thwart the lean man, and vice versa. For they came from rival Wall Street news ticker services and the most important thing in the lives of each just now was to insure getting over the wire to the editorial office first any news resulting from the meeting of the Inter-City Board of Directors now going on behind the door marked "Private." Once flashed to the home office, the news would be instantly relayed over tickers located in brokers' offices in the entire financial district of New York and even in other cities. The Stock Exchange was in session, the news might vitally affect Inter-City stocks. Beat-

-50

ing the rival news service with the information even by a minute or two meant glory for the victor and censure for the vanquished.

The fate of the two reporters lay in the nimble hands of Tess O'Malley, through whom the crucial telephone message would apparently have to go. Both reporters knew it. So did Miss O'Malley, though to see her calmly chewing gum and reading a pink tabloid newspaper you would never suspect it.

The fat man had already edged over toward her and ''sotto voce'' had attempted to bribe her, with the promise of a box of candy and a luncheon date, to let his call go through first when the all-important moment arrived. Tess had smiled coldly and shaken her auburn bob in the negative.

The fat man had been there before covering Board of Directors meetings and she didn't like him.

He now rose and started impatiently walking around and lighting a cigarette. The good-looking thin youth, seizing his opportunity, leaned toward her.

"Is that the only telephone around here?" he asked politely.

Tess hesitated. He had nice eyes.

"You're new at this game, aren't you?" she asked softly. When he nodded, she added, "Well, don't breathe a word to Fatty over there that I told you but there's a 'phone a few jumps away around the corner on the reception room desk with a direct connection. It, don't lead through my switchboard at all. When the time comes, let him jump for my

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'phone here and you beat it around the corner to the other one. You'll lick him by three minutes even if I have to stall his call. But neither of you need worry as a matter of fact. Nothing ain't going to break out of this meeting that they'll spill to you boys. It's very confidential stuff."

The thin reporter thanked her and sat back in his chair.

The outer door opened and a tall, almost too well dressed young man with a dark moustache and a saturnine face strode briskly in. Without a glance at the three occupants of the outer office he hurried to the door marked "Private" and disappeared inside.

"Say," said the fat reporter to the telephone girl with sudden interest. "Wasn't that Steven Carter?"

"Yeh," said Miss O'Malley. "What of it?"

"Well, there's going to be something doing at this meeting after all, then. They never send for Carter unless there's important stuff in the wind—and probably it's phoney."

"Yeh, maybe they're going to drain the Hudson River and run a subway line through it, hey?" gibed Miss O'Malley not very good-naturedly.

The fat reporter seemed about to make an angry retort but thought better of it and was silent.

The entrance of Steven Carter created a stir on the inner and more secretive side of the door marked "Private." Around the long mahogany table the gray-haired, impressive looking directors of the destinies of the great Inter-City rapid transit lines

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sat earning the fifty-dollar gold pieces that went to each for attending a directors' meeting. The aroma of expensive cigars filled the room. At the head of the polished table sat President John B. Donaldson, shrewd but square.

Short, squatty Vice-President McGuire, seated on Donaldson's right, was shrewd only. It had been his idea to call Carter, an idea of which Donaldson did not wholly approve. Stephen Carter was the Inter-City's handy man, especially when something more delicate than refined was to be attempted. It was Carter who found and organized the strike breakers when labor troubles harassed the Inter-City. It was he who stationed the spies and other annoyances among the striking employees and dampened their morale. He was reported to have at his beck and call the largest assortment of thugs and gunmen ever enlisted under one banner. As a lobbyist at Albany or Washington he was also thoroughly at home. And at conducting confidential negotiations, from buying up land at half what it was worth to freeing transit magnates' wayward sons from predatory chorus girls, particularly when a certain amount of strong-arm work was required, he had no superior.

It went rather against John Donaldson's grain to do business with a man like Carter. But the present emergency seemed to other members of the Board to require that wily gentleman's services, and Donaldson had yielded.

"Take this seat, Mr. Carter," proffered Donaldson, indicating the chair at his left. When Carter

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was seated, the President went on, "Mr. McGuire says he has already hinted to you of the necessity of the Inter-City acquiring control of the half-mile of trackage on De Lacey Street now held by the Crosstown Railways. If we are to construct our new line on Summer Street, an improvement both desirable and profitable, we must have a spur line on De Lacey to connect Summer with our present Dale Avenue line. I believe you have already investigated the ownership of the Crosstown franchise."

"Yes," replied Carter in a clipped voice. "The line is owned by one man—Jeremiah C. Dillon. It is obsolete and doing practically no business at the present time. Dillon inherited it in the will of the late William C. Rockwell, in return, I understand, for a favor he once did Rockwell. The franchise calls for one trip a day to be made over the line. If the trip is not made for even one day, the franchise becomes void. Now if we can prevent—"

"We are not interested in securing this franchise by fraud, if that is what you are intending to propose," Donaldson cut in sharply. "We are willing to pay as high as $75,000 for it. If you believe it can be bought for that, I will give you a check for that amount and authority to conduct the negotiations. We are anxious that the Inter-City name does not figure in the deal until the time comes for signing the papers. We do not want our competitors to know we are after the Crosstown. So the whole thing will have to be done in your name. And it will have to be done by not later than Friday of

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this week, because there is a meeting of the Rapid Transit Committee at the City Hall Saturday morning and we must have a complete plan for the improvement and unification of our lines to present at that meeting. This is Tuesday. You have three days. Do you think you can do it?"

If Donaldson had been closely observing Steven Carter as he talked, he would have seen a rather sinister glint come into Carter's black eyes.

"Yes, I believe I can," Carter answered promptly. "May I have the check before I leave?"

"Drop into my office and I will have it made out for you," said Donaldson. He turned to the other directors. "Well, gentlemen, that about concludes our meeting, unless someone has other matters to be brought up for discussion." They had not. The meeting was adjourned.

As President Donaldson walked out of the door marked "Private" two men rushed at him like football tacklers. They were the two rivals from the news ticker agencies. President Donaldson smiled indulgently.

"No news at all, boys—nothing whatever," he said.

"What about your unification plan for the Transit Committee meeting Saturday?" asked the fat man.

"We may have something interesting to tell you then," admitted Donaldson. And he turned on his heel and disappeared back behind the door marked "Private."

Tess O'Malley chuckled. "All you boys' trouble for nothing," she jibed. "I told you there wouldn't

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be anything doing. If you'd listened to me you wouldn't need to have stuck around all this time."

"And if your boy friend here listened to you about the 'phone around the corner," retorted the fat man, indicating his leaner competitor, "he'd have been in a swell jam if anything broke. A repair man from the telephone company has had it all apart for the last half hour. I heard what you told the young fellow here, girlie, and took the trouble to check up. When you've been in this game as long as I have, you learn to listen to everything."

"Well, what do you know about that for mistrustfulness," sighed Tess, rolling her gum and looking around at the back of the exiting corpulent reporter.

"Thanks for the tip anyway. You meant well," smiled the lean reporter. "Next time we'll fix him."

Had either reporter followed the trail of Steven Carter when he left the Inter-City offices ten minutes later, the sleuths of the news might have learned something that would have made the front page with glaring headlines.

Carter descended in the elevator to the entrance hall of the Inter-City Building. There he sought a telephone booth and called a number.

"Hello," said Carter briskly when the connection was made. "P. G. Callahan Association? Hello—Mike? Puggy there? Good. Put him on, will you?" A pause followed. Then, "Hello—Puggy? Say, I may have a little job for you. Strong-arm work. Plenty of dough. Don't worry. I'll protect

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you. I'll run in to see you in about an hour. Be there. Good-bye."

Leaving the telephone booth, Carter walked out of the building onto the sidewalk and hired a passing taxi. When next he alighted it was on De Lacey Street about a block from the flat occupied by Pop Dillon and Jane. Carter consulted an address written in a little red book. Then he walked down De Lacey Street, stopped, ascended four well-worn stone steps and pulled the Dillons' bell.

Jane came to the door. Carter took off his hat, smiled in friendly fashion and said, "Is this Miss Dillon?"

Jane nodded.

He went on, "I understand you have a room to rent here. I'm seeking new quarters and would like to look your room over."

Jane stared at him in some surprise. He was so well and obviously so expensively dressed that she wondered what he could be doing looking for a room in that modest neighborhood. But Carter could be very pleasant when he wanted to be and on this particular occasion he was on his best behavior.

"I'll show you the room if you like," said Jane. "But it's really quite small."

"I don't mind. My tastes are simple," Carter replied, following her down the hallway and toward the rear of the house. At the same time he was observing that Jane was a very pretty girl and that his task in this house was perhaps not going to prove so irksome and so strictly business as he had feared.

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Jane opened the door of a small bedroom to the left of the hallway well in the rear of the house. It was Speedy's former abode. Very clean and neatly if sparsely furnished, it lacked light and was, as Jane had confessed, very small.

Nevertheless, with hardly more than a perfunctory glance at the room, Carter said, "I'll take it. I'll bring my stuff right down."

"But you haven't even asked me the price!" Jane protested, puzzled.

"To be sure. Very careless of me." Carter said, in some confusion.

"It's ten dollars a week—payable in advance."

"Here's twenty dollars—two weeks in advance," Carter laughed.

Jane took the proffered bill. She was still uncertain as to what had brought such a suave man of the world to their doors, but one thing sure—he was good pay.

"We can give you breakfast and dinner here for a dollar and a half a day extra," Jane continued, trying to be every inch a business woman, though this was her first experience as a landlady.

"O.K. That's fine," grinned Carter. "I'll want to eat every meal here I can. I think I shall find it very pleasant." He smiled at Jane in an intimate fashion that made her feel vaguely uneasy.

"We couldn't serve you luncheon," Jane explained, "because I always eat that with my grandfather. He's Mr. Dillon of the Crosstown Railways."

"I've heard of him," said Carter gravely. "He lives here, doesn't he?"
{{nop}}

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"Yes. I keep house for him."

"Will he be home tonight?"

"Oh, yes."

"Good." Carter mused a second. Then he added quickly, "I'll go uptown and get my stuff and bring it down."

Jane walked with him to the door. He shook hands with her, donned his hat and was off. Two minutes later she wondered if it were all a dream; if she really had rented the room so quickly and to such a tall, handsome if somewhat sinister looking young man. She wondered who he was and where he had come from. If he were perhaps some millionaire's son preparing to hide out from his family. Or even, horrors, a criminal. Maybe she should have asked for references. Well, when he returned she would discreetly question him about himself. Meantime she had the precious twenty dollars. What if it were counterfeit! She inspected it minutely. Then decided she was acting silly and went quickly back to her job of peeling potatoes for dinner.

Meantime Carter had walked down the block to his waiting taxi. The street was nearly empty, as he noted with satisfaction. He gave the young driver a destination that made that worthy prick up his ears and gaze curiously at his fare. The chauffeur whirled his car around and started in the direction of the East River. Arrived a block from the water, he turned south a few blocks into a shabby tenement district and pulled up in front of a disreputable looking wooden structure next door to a lumber yard. A board over the entrance was

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scrawled "P. G. Callahan Association." Carter paid his freight and alighted.

He knocked slowly three times on the soot covered gray door and was admitted.

The room inside was filled with smoke and the odor of many unwashed human beings. The click of billiard and pool cues mingled with the sound of tough voices. The occupants were entirely roughly clad men, unmistakably hard characters. They glanced sharply toward the door as Carter entered, then, recognizing him, went back to their former occupations. All except a burly, red-faced Irishman in his shirt sleeves who left the poker game in the corner to greet the newcomer. The former led the way to the rear of the room and opened a door leading into a more private sanctum, Callahan's office. For the fat man with the hard blue eyes and undershot jaw was none other than the redoubtable Puggy Callahan, leader of the motley crew littering up the room outside. The police had long suspected Callahan of instigating or actually perpetrating "jobs" comprising everything from petty larceny to murder, but thus far they had been able to fasten nothing definite upon him. He had the utmost scorn for them.

"What's the dope, boss?" he asked Carter when they were seated around a table.

"Do you know Pop Dillon?" Carter inquired.

"Who—the old guy who runs the horse-car line over on De Lacey Street?" asked Puggy.

"Yes." Carter hitched over nearer to the hulk that was Callahan. "Listen, Puggy, friends of mine

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are interested in seeing that this Dillon is laid up for a while, see? Fixed so he can't run his car for a few days. Not hurt badly, you understand, but just beat up enough so he'll have to go to bed and can't run the car."

"Sure—I get you. That won't take much. He's an old man."

"I know. But everybody along the block is his friend. They'll pile on in case of a general rough house. You'll have to work quietly. Get him when he brings the car into the barn after a trip. Just sock him a few and then beat it."

"O.K., boss. When do you want it done—right away?"

"No," Carter replied hastily. "I want you to wait definite word from me before you do a thing. It will be tomorrow anyway before I give the word. I want to see first whether Dillon will listen to reason. If he doesn't, he'll have to take the consequences."

"All right, boss. I'll wait for the word from you."

The ill-matched pair rose, shook hands and parted. Carter had told his taxi to wait. He now reclaimed it and gave the driver an address in the 50's just off Fifth Avenue, Carter's own apartment. Still keeping the taxi, he got out in front of an impressive concrete and marble apartment house, was whisked up to the third floor in the elevator and opened a door with his latch key. In ten minutes he was back in the cab again with a suitcase and was heading again toward De Lacey Street.
{{nop}}

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Instead of Jane greeting him at the door of the Dillon flat this time, it was Pop Dillon himself.

"I'm the new boarder—Steven Carter," said the confidential agent.

"Jane's been telling me about you," said Pop looking him up and down. "Come in. I guess you know where your room is."

As soon as Carter had disappeared into his room, Jane, an apron tucked around her slender form, hurried in from the kitchen and, bright eyed and anxious, asked Pop, "How do you like him, granddad?"

Pop, who had in the meantime shed his coat and abandoned his shoes in favor of carpet slippers, shook his gray head slightly, "Well, you can't go much on first appearances. But, tell the truth, Janie, I don't get what a swell looking young man like that is renting a room from us for. Looks funny. And those sharp black eyes of his—they ain't missing much. However—we'll see—we'll see. Is Speedy coming over after supper?"

"I'm sure I don't know, granddad," replied Jane rather primly. She was a little miffed because her new boarder had not scored a bigger hit. And lately she had been exhibiting a little shyness when questioned about the calls, past or potential, of Speedy Swift.

Hearing Carter coming up the hallway fon his room, Jane now fled back to the kitchen. The new boarder sank into a well-worn easy chair opposite his landlord and made a few perfunctory remarks about the weather. Pop dropped the evening paper

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he had picked up and surveyed Carter curiously.

"Stranger in this part of the city, aren't you, Mr. Carter?" he asked.

"Yes," returned Carter, endeavoring to summon a very frank and engaging smile to his sharp, swarthy {{SIC|face. I've|face. "I've}} been living farther uptown. To tell the truth, Mr. Dillon, I decided my expenses were mounting too high and I'd seek cheaper quarters. A friend of mine recommended this neighborhood, I saw your 'Room for Rent' outside your door and here I am."

"What business are you in?" Pop Dillon persisted.

"Brokerage concern—down in Wall Street," said Carter. "And you, I understand, are the sole owner and operator of the Crosstown Railways."

Pop nodded.

"Funny," Carter continued, watching Pop shrewdly, "I heard a man down in Wall Street just this morning remark that he might make a bid for your franchise if he could pick it up cheaply enough."

Pop was instantly alert. "What did he want it for?" he asked.

"Oh, he had nothing in mind for the present. He would just hold it for speculation purposes." Carter hitched his chair over closer to the old man. "I like you and your family, Mr. Dillon, and I'll tip you off to something. In all probability what this man had in mind was that some day the Inter-City people would want to buy up this franchise in order to consolidate their system. Perhaps you've

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been holding on to this unprofitable business all the time with the same idea. Well, I had a straight tip this morning from a high {{SIC|offiicial|official}} in the Inter-City that they've given up all thought of any further development of their lines in this section of the city and at the Transit Committee meeting Saturday they'll announce it. So your franchise isn't worth a nickel, Mr. Dillon, and never will be."

"That so?" Pop asked dully. He tried to conceal it but Carter's words had dashed a long-cherished hope. He had been figuring that some day the Inter-City people would come to him to buy his franchise. The new boarder seemed very convincing. Dillon believed him—almost. There was, however, some sixth sense that warned the old man to be cautious.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Dillon," Carter went on. "I'll talk to this Wall Street man in the morning, if you say so, and get him to make you a definite offer through me. He doesn't wish to be identified personally with the deal himself. The amount he mentioned to me that he was willing to pay was—a thousand dollars."

"It's worth more than that," said Pop stubbornly.

"It isn't worth anything," Carter almost snapped back, dropping his disguise for an instant. Then quickly regaining it, "I think a thousand dollars would be a Godsend to you for that property. Shall I tell him you're interested?"

"Nope—I don't care to sell," said Pop.

Carter shrugged his shoulders. All right, he was saying to himself, if you're going to balk, I'll get

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you in a cheaper and rougher way. At this moment the smiling and somewhat flushed face of Jane appeared at the entrance to the living room and announced dinner.

The meal, somewhat more elaborate than the usual Dillon evening repast due to the presence of the newcomer, passed pleasantly enough. Jane and Carter carried on most of the conversation, with the girl springing up now and again to clear the table and wait upon the men. The urbanity and manners of Carter impressed her. She had never met such a man of the world before.

After dinner Carter announced that he would have to leave them for a while but would be back later. His errand took him to the drug store on the corner where a telephone booth was located.

"Go ahead and get Dillon when he brings his car back to the barn after his last trip tomorrow," Carter said to Puggy Callahan over the wire.

Then Carter bought a good cigar at the drug store counter and, well satisfied with himself, took a turn around the block before starting back to his new boarding house.

-i

{{FreedImg
| file = Speedy (1928) 3.png
| caption = {{Speedy (Holman)/image banner}} {{uc|Fun at the mirrors of mirth.}}
| width = 600px
}}

—

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{{sc|And}} what, you ask, of Speedy Swift all this time that sinister clouds were gathering about the innocent heads of Jane and Pop Dillon?

On the morning of that same day when the Dillons discussed him at luncheon in the old horse car and the Inter-City directors met and Steven Carter changed his living quarters, Speedy Swift rode to work jammed in a subway car and in a very contrite and ambitious mood. Baseball, however, was not entirely absent from his mind. His paper was opened to the sporting page as he swayed on his subway strap and he eagerly absorbed the news of the previous day's game, which his favorite team, the Yankees, had won. A victory today, the paper declared, and the New York American Leaguers would be sure contenders in the World's Series.

Arrived at the Wall Street station, Speedy virtuously decided that the thing for him to do was to leave his paper in the subway car. But that, he told himself on second thought, would be wrong. It was wicked to litter up subway cars with newspapers. He stuffed the sheet into his pocket and allowed himself to be pushed out upon the subway platform with the other passengers whose destination was the same as his and who seemed to feel that the heavens would fall unless they were out of the train like a rifle shot.
{{nop}}

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Harold was wafted up the steps with the rest of the mob and into the sunshine of Broadway. Turning into Wall, he walked briskly to the Consolidated Building. In the elevator he had a chance to snatch a glance at his paper again. But, once inside the ante-office of the Consolidated, he flung the paper with the air of a martyr into the trash basket near the telephone switchboard. Then with a cheery "Good morning" to the telephone girl he hurried through the maze of desks toward the sanctum of the office manager.

A former fellow clerk hailed him. "Say, Swift, I thought you were fired," said this worthy.

"Oh, no," Speedy came back jauntily. "They can't fire ''me."''

That model of efficiency, the office manager, did not put in an appearance until ten o'clock. Speedy greeted him with high ambitions.

"I thought I discharged you," said the office manager gruffly, to Speedy's deep chagrin.

"Oh, no," Speedy said, "you told me that you had some very important outside work which you wanted me to do."

"Oh, yes, I remember," Mr. Talbott conceded. "Well, we'll start you out delivering these papers. They're all in envelopes and marked where they're to go. You can put them in this wallet."

He went to a cabinet nearby {{SIC|an|and}} took out an {{hinc|oversized}} bill-fold with a chain fastened to it, such as bank runners carry.

"Hook this chain to your belt so you won't drop the wallet. And mind these papers—they're very

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valuable and they must be delivered promptly and to the right addresses."

"I'll be careful," Harold promised. "But don't I get a gun so I can protect myself from bandits? All the bank messengers carry guns."

"No, you won't need that," smiled Mr. Talbott, "though these papers are worth a lot of money. Now you'd better get going, and be back here as soon as you can and I'll have more work for you to do."

"O.K.," Speedy sang out and clipped the chain to his belt and placed the wallet carefully in his inside pocket.

Two of the addresses on the envelopes were uptown and it was noon before Harold again reported to Mr. Talbott. He had performed his tasks perfectly and was quite proud of himself.

"Get your lunch now and be back here in an hour," ordered Mr. Talbott.

On the way down Broad Street to his favorite cafeteria, Harold again bought a paper from the red-headed newsboy on the corner and read the baseball gossip over his pea soup and ham sandwich.

After lunch there was another flock of envelopes to deliver. Harold made good speed with these. At four o'clock he again stood in front of the office manager and inquired for more work.

"Good work," Mr. Talbott said heartily. "Keep that up and we'll soon have a more important assignment for you around here."

The office manager regarded Speedy thoughtfully. Then his cold gray eyes flitted to a daintily wrapped package reposing upon the chaste glass top of his

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desk. Mr. Talbott twinkled over to the desk, picked up the package and came back to Speedy. Could it be that the austere executive was blushing? He cleared his throat.

"I am going to ask you to do an important private errand for me, Swift," said the office manager in a lowered voice, as if he feared a score of ears were listening. "I—er—want you to deliver these flowers to a lady at the Hotel Envoy. The card is attached to the package here. Be very careful of them and be very prompt. They must be at the Envoy in fifteen minutes. The lady is leaving town. See that the flowers aren't crushed in the subway. Now—remember—fifteen minutes. I shall be calling the lady on the telephone at the end of that time. If those flowers haven't arrived, there'll be trouble—for you!"

"Yes, sir," grinned Speedy.

"Since it is already after four o'clock, you will not be performing a private service for me on the company's time," argued Mr. Talbott primly, seeking to absolve himself of any accusation of frivolity. "And here is five cents for your subway fare."

"Don't worry, Mr. Talbott, I'll be there on time," assured Speedy. What sort of a lady could it be that this old fossil could be sending flowers to or who would be sore if they didn't arrive, Speedy asked himself.

He accepted the package and was off for the elevator like a Pony Express rider.

But when he reached the sidewalk, though his pace was rapid through the pedestrians, Speedy's mind

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was wavering from Consolidated Steel and the Envoy to Babe Ruth and the New York Yankees.

He edged through the mob held up at the next crossing by traffic. A steady stream of cars was passing in front of them. Though he edged skillfully through the crush of humans to the curb, carefully shielding the precious flowers from destruction, the broad back of the policeman in front of him prevented any break for freedom between the onward plunging motors.

The bluecoat had apparently forgotten that people were impatiently waiting to cross. Three minutes that seemed an eternity passed, and still the cars swept on. Speedy consulted his watch uneasily. He looked at the immense blue back in front of him. He glanced down at the little metallic whistle dangling on a leather strap from the cop's fingers. Then, with a daring born of necessity, he reached swiftly down, seized the whistle, put it to his own lips and blew lustily.

Brakes squealed and twenty automobiles stopped abruptly in their tracks. Speedy ducked around the pedestrians immediately near him and dashed swiftly across the street through the open space his strategy had won. The policeman was sputtering angrily, but he was unable to detect who had perpetrated the outrage. Speedy was half a block away.

Safe from discovery, Speedy slowed down. Again his mind wandered up to the Yankee Stadium. Perhaps Babe Ruth was coming to the bat this minute. Such a marvelous afternoon for it. Warm

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and sunshiny. Almost unconsciously his hurrying feet propelled him up Broad Street instead of over to Broadway to the subway. There was a scoreboard up near the World Building. He would just give it a glance as he passed and find out how the Yankees were doing. Then he would leap aboard an express and rush to the Envoy.

A dense mob packed the sidewalk in front of the scoreboard and surged out into the street, requiring the services of two harassed mounted policemen to keep them in order. Harold circled the outside of the crowd, just avoiding a police horse's prancing hoofs, and attempted to look up over the men in front of him at the scoreboard. It was impossible. The broad backs completely cut off his view. He pushed and prodded his way into the mass. But this was worse yet. He anxiously asked a tall man ahead of him how the game was going.

"Nothin' to nothin' in the fifth," was the answer.

Suddenly a groan swept the crowd.

"What happened?" Speedy cried out excitedly.

"Detroit scored a run," replied the tall man.

"That's a shame, but Babe'll show 'em," Speedy urged. Poor Mr. Talbott. Poor lady at the Hotel Envoy. The mind of the courier bearing the token from one to the other was now completely filled with nothing but baseball. The flowers hanging limply in his hand were forgotten. He tried to butt his way in toward a position that would enable him to get a clear view of the scoreboard. In vain. He looked around for a possible vantage spot. A broad glistening window in a building opposite caught his

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eye. It was a dentist's office. If he sat in that window he could see perfectly. There was even a chair just behind the glass.

Without a second thought, Speedy, trained by his New York street experiences to make use of every expedient that offered itself, dashed across the street and up the stairs to the dental emporium. He pushed open the door. The place seemed to be deserted. He almost ran through to the front of the establishment, spotted the chair in front of the window and climbed up into it. Eureka! He had a wonderfully clear view of the scoreboard.

And in their half of the sixth inning the Yankees had tied the score!

Harold glued his eyes on the board across the street. It was equipped with a mechanical device whereby a miniature reproduction of the game was played before your eyes. Tiny tin men represented the players, and there was a ball and everything.

Nothing of importance happened on the scoreboard in the seventh inning, but developments took place in the dental parlors. The proprietor appeared. He was a portly, distinguished-looking gentlemen. He glanced in surprise at the occupant of the chair, decided that the youth must be suffering violently from toothache and had rushed into the office to be ready for relief as quickly as possible.

"Where does it ache?" the dentist asked.

Speedy was startled. He looked quickly around. Not for the world would he be ousted out of the chair. Not if he had to have every tooth in his head pulled.
{{nop}}

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"I don't know which one hurts," Speedy said boldly. "They all hurt. Look them over."

The dentist had moved over in front of him and Speedy had to look around the tooth-jerker's bulky frame in order to maintain his sight of the precious scoreboard. Out of a corner of his eyes the youth now saw the white-coated dentist lift a small hand glass and a slim, wicked looking little steel instrument from the drawer of the near-by cabinet. He bade Harold open his mouth wide and began a careful examination of the boy's teeth, gazing through the glass and prodding with the sharp tool. Luckily the dentist stood to one side as he conducted his search, and Harold had carefully elevated his head so that he could follow the proxy baseball game across the street.

"Hey-y-y!" suddenly yelled Speedy.

"Hurt you?" asked the dentist with the grim satisfaction of making a discovery. "Is that the one?"

"No—no," hastily answered Speedy. "Grabowski hit a three bagger!"

The tooth surgeon shot a quick, penetrating glance at Harold.

"Your teeth all seem to be in splendid condition," said the dentist with the air of dismissing his patient.

"Oh, they can't be!" cried Speedy, panic-stricken at the thought of being driven from his vantage point at this critical stage of the game. "O-o-oh, there it goes hurting me again," he fairly yelled, clutching at his jaw.
{{nop}}

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"Where?" asked the dentist, peering anxiously and closely at him.

"Here," said Harold, pointing at his right cheek but forgetting and dropping his hand in a gesture of disgust as he ejaculated, "Darn it, Shocker struck out and the inning's over."

Dubiously the dentist started over again on his survey among the molars and bicuspids, concentrating on the right side of Harold's mouth. While he was thus preoccupied, the Consolidate's star messenger boy was able to his satisfaction to see the Detroit team in the first half of the ninth inning go out in order. Now it was the Yankees' last turn at bat, if the game were not to go to extra innings. The heavy hitters at the head of the batting order were striding to the plate. But, alas, the two first men to face the Tiger twirler succumbed on strikes. And it was the turn of the mighty Babe Ruth to do or die.

"Sock it, Babe!" and "Knock a homer!" came faintly up through the plate glass window to Harold from the dense throng in the street below. They were stretching their necks in a great show of excitement. Harold was almost beside himself with the tenseness of the situation. He clutched the arms of the professional easy chair in which he was sitting and had to be admonished several times to keep his mouth open wide.

And then, miracle of miracles, Babe hit the first ball pitched to him for a home run, and the Yankees had won, 2 to 1!

"Hoo-o-ray!" yelled Harold, leaping from the

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chair, his action knocking the instruments out of his mouth and almost sending the dentist over backward. Before that worthy could protest or catch him, Speedy dashed wildly from the office and down the stairs and out into the street.

Only when he had gained the pavement and stood there for an instant to watch the mob dispersing in all directions from in front of the scoreboard did he remember the precious flowers for the Envoy lady that were still clutched in his hand. He turned pale. The flowers looked crushed and wilted. He set off rapidly up the street toward Broadway. But he had taken only a few steps when he became aware that a taxi had drawn close to the curb beside him and a man's angry voice was calling his name. He looked over into the stormy face of Mr. Talbott, who had opened the taxi door and was peering out at him.

"I—I was just going to deliver the flowers, Mr. Talbott,' Harold started to explain.

"Just an hour and a half too late," bellowed Talbott. "I thought I'd find you here, when I 'phoned and they said you hadn't arrived yet. Give me those flowers."

"But—but—sir—" Harold stammered, feeling something terrible would happen if he gave up the flowers. Nevertheless, as Talbott held out his hand demandingly, Speedy had to turn them over to him.

"Now I'll tell you that I had duplicates of these flowers sent from the Grand Central Florist Shop three quarters of an hour ago," said the office manager crisply. "As for you, Swift, you're fired. And

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don't come near the office again—I'll mail you your day's pay. Go ahead, driver."

The taxi door slammed and the machine started off, leaving Harold standing there, open-mouthed and deeply chagrined. He shook his head slowly. His weakness for baseball had lost him another job. For a second he felt like crying. Jane and Pop would be so disappointed. Then Speedy's buoyant good humor came rushing to his rescue. Well, it wasn't such a good job anyway—not worthy of his talents. He preferred something with more excitement in it, driving a racing car, for instance. His face recovered its usual cheerful, happy-go-lucky expression. There was nothing to do now but go home. Tomorrow he would look for another job. He walked up to Brooklyn Bridge and boarded a subway local uptown.

Ten minutes later he was walking up De Lacey Street and the sun was setting. He debated whether or not he should go to the Dillons for supper. They had their evening meal early, he knew, and he decided they would be finished and there was no use putting Jane to extra trouble. Besides, there might be plenty of meals for the next week or so that he might have to sponge upon them for—until he found a job. He stopped at the quick lunch emporium at De Lacey and Candler and had a plate of steaming beans and a cup of coffee.

Coming out, feeling at peace with the world, he thought he might as well get the bad news for the evening over with and tell the Dillons that he had lost his job again.
{{nop}}

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It was about this time that Steven Carter, having dined at his new boarding house, was just setting out for his post-prandial visit to the corner telephone booth. A few feet from the Dillon door Speedy passed him, though neither appreciated at the time the parts they would play in each other's lives and did not even exchange glances.

Harold let himself into the Dillon front entrance, which was not locked, and walked into the living room.

"Hello, Jane. Hello, Pop," he sang out cheerfully.

"Oh, how did you make out at the office today, Harold?" asked Jane at once. She had been doing something for Pop's aching back.

"I got fired," Harold said flatly. He hung his head a little. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself, though only because of the obvious dismay of the Dillons.

"No-o!" said both Jane and her grandfather at the same time.

"Yep, I stopped to look at the scoreboard when I should have been delivering an important message for old Talbott."

"Dang you, boy, that baseball is ruining you," sputtered Pop Dillon irascibly.

"Harold, you shouldn't have done it. Your work should always come first," Jane reproved gently. "What are you going to do now?"

"Look for another job," replied Harold with confidence.

"And git fired from that one too, I suppose,"

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said Pop. He was in his undershirt. Jane had been treating his back with an electric vibrator, purchased that day in the effort to help Pop's rheumatism. She now resumed her massaging of the old man's ailing muscles.

"Let me work that thing, Jane. I'm stronger," Harold offered.

"Do you suppose you can?" Pop asked sarcastically. "Maybe you'd rather be reading the paper about the ball game."

"Don't need to," Speedy returned good-naturedly. "I saw it all on the mechanical scoreboard—almost as well as if I'd been at the game. The Yanks won, 2 to 1."

"That so?" Pop evinced a mild interest. "That puts them in the World's Series. Don't suppose you'd interrupt yourself to look for a job while the Series was on."

"Sure. I got to find work. I'm broke," Speedy replied, all the while gently kneading Pop with the vibrator, which he had taken from the hands of Jane.

They were thus engaged when a suave voice from the hallway said, "May I see you a minute, Miss Dillon?" Carter was standing there smiling.

Jane arose and went to him. They adjourned to the hall and talked in low tones. Harold's manipulation of the vibrator ceased. He stared out toward Jane and the stranger. His first glance at the newcomer was a puzzled one. Then he frowned. He had taken in Carter's dark, sharp visage and he didn't like it. Besides, what right did the fellow

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have to take his Jane out into the hall privately to talk to her! Who was he anyway?

He turned to ask Pop Dillon. The old man, finding Harold was shirking his task again, had got up disgustedly and left the room. In a few minutes Jane returned again, flushed and smiling.

"Who was that fellow?" Harold asked at once in a not-too-pleasant voice.

Jane pouted. "He's rented your old room, if you want to know. His name is Steven Carter and he's going to sleep and eat here."

"Where did he come from?"

"He's a very prominent Wall Street man. Rich too."

"Then what's he doing ''here?"''

"How do I know? It's enough for me that he paid two weeks' board in advance—cash. He's a very nice man. He just gave me two tickets for Coney Island, one for Luna Park and one for Steeplechase. And if you're going to be so surly about him, Harold, I won't invite you to go there tomorrow with me and use them."

"I couldn't go anyway. I've got to look for a job."

"You mean you've got to go up to the ball game," said Jane with unaccustomed tartness. Then, attempting to hide her disappointment with an airy threat, "Maybe I can get somebody else to go with me. Mr. Carter said he'd be glad to go himself if he wasn't going to be so busy tomorrow on a very special matter. But I guess I can coax him to—"

"I'll go," Speedy cut in quickly.
{{nop}}

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Soon he was warming up enthusiastically to the prospect of the adventure. He had not been to Coney Island since the previous summer. An occasional movie, a ball game and, once in a great while, a show viewed from a second balcony seat constituted the round of pleasure of the nearly always moneyless Speedy. Jane's excursions into the world of entertainment were even more limited. The tickets to Coney Island were like unexpected manna from Heaven. The contemplated trip to New York's most garish and most convenient resort was an event of tremendous importance to both. Carter, whose enterprises required him to have a supply of theatre tickets, passes and similar largess on hand for distribution, had given the tickets to Jane with the idea of getting her out of the neighborhood the next day. His scheme was working with perfect success.

"I'll wear that new gray suit that I bought with my first week's pay from the Consolidated—the suit you picked out," said Speedy enthusiastically.

"And I'll wear my new dress that granddad gave me for my birthday," countered Jane.

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{{sc|When}} Speedy, arrayed in his spick and span new gray suit, arrived at the Dillon's flat bright and early the next morning he discovered Jane in the kitchen. An {{hinc|over-sized}} apron protected her best gown. She was making sandwiches for their luncheon. This was the second noontime repast she had prepared that day. Pop Dillon had taken his with him when he departed for the car some time previously. She stopped her work for a minute to inspect Speedy.

"You look fine, Harold," she complimented as he pivoted around in front of her to give her a view of his sartorial splendor from all sides.

"You look nice too, Jane," he returned. "Are we all set? Have you got your bathing suit?"

"Isn't it too late in the season for swimming?" she asked.

"Oh, no. It's a beautiful, sunshiny day out—warm as midsummer."

They packed luncheon and bathing suits into the small imitation leather suitcase, a relic of the days when Jane was attending public school and carrying: her books in it. Then Jane donned her trim little hat and coat and they were off.

At the corner they descended into the cavernous depths of the subway. The trains were packed to the last inch of standing room with workers bound

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downtown. They were forced to fet two of the juggernauts that roared into the local station go by without even attempting to board them. Then, deciding that the situation would probably get worse before it got better, they rushed the doors of the third train as soon as they were slid open. Both Jane and Harold were hardened New York underground wayfarers and knew that clothes and limb must be risked if one desires to do any tube traveling during rush hours.

They succeeded in jamming their way through the tightly packed mob of passengers to a position where they could cling to adjacent straps. At the next stop a man vacated a seat near Jane. She started toward it but a burly laborer with a lunch box beat her to it and opened a morning paper in front of his face so that he could not see the hostile looks which both Jane and Harold cast his way. Two stations later when another sector of vacant yellow seat was opened up by the departure of a fat man, Harold fairly dived into it like a football tackler. Having won the precious space by these heroic tactics, he motioned Jane over and relinquished it to her.

"Great teamwork, buddy," said a young man standing in front of them who had witnessed the maneuver.

"You've got to work fast around here," smiled Speedy.

"You said it," agreed the other youth with an appreciative glance at pretty Jane.

Practically the whole car full had departed by the

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time the train was rushing under the river toward Brooklyn. The car alternately filled and refilled as the journey continued through New York's twin city. Nearing Coney Island the only other passengers were three women with ten children between them, all bound for the beach. Jane and Speedy had kept up a lively conversation ever since entering the car. The train was now running on a trestle and both eagerly watched for the first glimpse of Coney. At last they could see the skeleton-like wooden roller coasters and ferris wheels reaching skyward. A few minutes more and they were alighting in the midst of the resort that entertains New York's teeming millions.

"You take the tickets, Harold," said Jane, producing them from her handbag.

"Where will we go first? Steeplechase?"

"All right. Then we'll put on our bathing suits and eat lunch on the beach. After that we'll swim and see Luna."

They walked up Surf Avenue, with its motley, gaudy array of restaurants, side shows, hot dog emporiums, motion picture theatres, pleasure parks and the like. They paused underneath the widely grinning face with monstrously prominent teeth that marked the entrance to Steeplechase Park.

Speedy presented his tickets to the man in the booth and both he and Jane received a long card containing a list of all the pleasure items in the Park. Beside each was a space which could be punched when the event was over.

"Oh, there's the 'Barrel of Fun'!" Jane cried out,

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all excitement. "Betty Feeley was telling me that was such sport. Let's try that first!"

So they hurried over, had their tags punched and entered the huge barrel, big enough to admit a giraffe. After a minute or two the barrel started whirling. Both were instantly knocked off their feet and set swirling around its smooth surface, toes flung madly in air, hats spun off. Harold laughed and Jane screamed with glee and it was very thrilling indeed. Finally the gyrating barrel stopped and they had a chance to recover their hats and breath.

"That was wonderful!" said Jane, panting as they walked away in search of new adventure.

"You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" Harold asked solicitously. "Some of these things are pretty rough on a girl."

"What do you think I'm made off? Glass?" Jane replied with a little scornful flip of her head. She did not like to be reminded disparagingly of her sex.

"Oh, look—Harold!" she cried suddenly, seizing him by the coat and turning him around, bursting out laughing as she did so.

He obeyed and caught a glimpse of himself in a huge curved mirror that distorted his body until he looked broader than he was long and ridiculously protruding in the middle. He laughed too, and Jane stepped beside him so that her slim form too was caricatured into that of a very fat midget. Next to this mirror was another that made them as tall as flagpoles. The place was a veritable hall

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of convex and concave glasses that twisted them into all sorts of laughable exaggerations.

They lingered here for a while in great glee, then proceeded farther to stop eventually in front of a booth where quite a crowd was collected. The grinning and woolly head of a huge negro was stuck through canvas on the other side of the counter and the knot of people was being urged to hurl baseballs at the senegambian and win cigars. The baseball angle of this appealed to Harold at once. He yielded his tag for a punch and received six baseballs. He stood off from the counter and took careful aim at his human target. Then he wound up in the style that he had copied from Waite Hoyt, Walter Johnson and other stars of the diamond. His arm came around with a wide sweep and suddenly stopped in something soft and yielding. At the same time there was a loud grunt and an exclamation of pain. Harold looked around to find that he had stuck ball and hand in the stomach of a very fat man among the spectators.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he stammered, putting a supporting arm around his victim, who seemed about to collapse.

"Why don't you look what you're doing when you try that fancy wind-up? Go out in the ball park and do that," gasped the fat man.

"Oh, don't you be such a crab, Keep your eyes open and you won't get hurt," Jane cut in spiritedly. She turned to Speedy, "Don't mind him, Harold. Go ahead."

The tart rebuke of the girl strangely enough

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subdued the obese one completely. The other spectators were all laughing at him now and he slunk away.

Recovering his equanimity, Harold repeated his roundhouse wind-up and hurled the ball swiftly at the negro's head. The latter had been paying attention to the argument in front of him and was for the moment off his guard. The result was that Speedy's shot struck him squarely on the crown of his head. The ball bounced nearly back over the counter. The proprietor of the booth frowned and muttered with displeasure at the negro. Then he summoned a professional smile to his hard face and held out the cigar box to our marksman. Speedy picked out a cigar.

"I'll take it home to Pop," he assured Jane.

He used up the other five balls also. But now the negro, smarting both from Speedy's rifle-like delivery and his boss's scolding, was more agile. He successfully ducked the remaining missiles. Jane and Harold soon moved on to more worlds to conquer.

Speedy insisted upon buying his pretty consort an ice cream cone at this point, although she protested that it would spoil their lunch. It was warm and she really welcomed the cone, but she knew Speedy's finances were in a low state of health so that even this small expenditure was important.

They rode upon a modern variation of a carousel which gave one the illusion of being in a horse race, with jaunty jockey caps supplied for the price of admittance. They were swung aloft in the huge

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ferris wheel until they seemed to be blissfully alone in an eternity of blue sky, and Speedy even ventured to hold Jane's hand a little. She supplied the pressure and propinquity herself a few minutes later when they were hurtling down the dips and spinning up the rises in the giant roller coaster. Jane almost screamed with excitement and clutched Speedy's arm tightly. He didn't mind.

And then it was time for lunch.

They had decided to go for a swim first and have luncheon upon the sand in their bathing suits. So they separated at the bathhouse doors, to rejoin each other later clad for the waves. Jane looked gracefully slim and pretty in her trim blue bathing suit and Speedy was an extremely well set-up young man for his age. He had under his arm the little suitcase, now containing nothing but their lunch. They deposited the case on the sand where they could keep an eye on it from the water. Then they walked hand in hand, chattering in lively fashion as their toes sank into the soft sand, toward the ocean.

Both were excellent swimmers. They pushed forward to their waists in the water, then dived smoothly in. The water was refreshingly cool. They swam lazily about, returning now and then to the beach to get running starts for dives back into the rolling surf. Finally they commenced swimming out toward the end of the lifelines and, rejoicing in the strength of youth and the pleasure of being together, glided side by side farther, farther from the shore. On the horizon a yacht and a tanker were lazily plunging their way south. The shore noises

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receded more and more. It was an ocean paradise, and De Lacey and the machinations of Steven Carter were far away. As if at a {{hinc|prearranged}} signal, they turned about and struck out for the sand.

They touched bottom simultaneously and walked out of the surf side by side, standing for a moment to get their breaths at the water's edge while the sun caused their wet white bodies to glisten.

"Hungry, Harold?" asked Jane.

"You bet. Let's eat."

But when they walked up to the place in the sand where their luncheon had been cached, the little brown suitcase had disappeared. They searched for fifteen minutes or more in the vicinity but could discover no trace of it. The nearest person on the sand was over a hundred yards away. They had noticed nobody near the spot. Who could have taken it?

Jane was on the verge of tears.

"Never mind," Speedy smiled. "We'll dress and eat at a restaurant."

"Oh, Harold, my lovely sandwiches. And that suitcase is the one I carry Pop's lunch in."

"Don't worry. We'll come back and look for it afterward."

There was nothing to do but go back to the bathhouse and dress. This accomplished, they walked along Surf Avenue.

"This ought to be a good place," Jane pointed out a quick lunch establishment.

"It doesn't look very high class," Speedy protested.

"It's plenty good enough," Jane declared posi-

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tively. "You've got to save your money, Harold."

So they entered the rather uninviting depths of the hashery and were served a modest fare of ham and beans on a soiled tablecloth by a bored waiter wearing an apron that fairly cried out for the services of a laundry. Jane and Speedy had found newspapers in which to wrap their wet bathing suits and the extra chair at the table held the bundle. Just as they finished the rather unappetizing repast the hatchet-faced proprietor, who had been eyeing them from his position at the cashier's chair, stalked over with a frowning face that boded no good.

"Say," he growled, "you'll have to get them wet bathing suits out of here. They're dripping on my floor."

"A little water on your dirty floor will do it good," snapped Speedy, rising quickly to his feet and awaiting trouble.

The proprietor hesitated. "If you don't like this joint, you can get out of it," he said somewhat weakly.

"Without paying the check?" inquired Speedy. "Are you that anxious to get rid of us?"

"Oh, you can stay and finish your meal," the complainant backed down.

"Don't worry. We're through. And not even the pleasure of your company can keep us here." Speedy was feeling very jaunty at his success in subduing the querulous one. "Come on, Jane."

He slapped his money down with a flourish upon the desk in front of the hash-house man, who had resumed his cashier's seat.
{{nop}}

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"The nerve of that fellow," sighed Speedy when they were again out upon the sidewalk. "Now let's try Luna."

Luna Park proved largely a duplicate of Steeplechase. They were rocked on the "Witching Waves" and rode upon the miniature railway train that took them through black tunnels and around quick turns. One by one their admission tickets were perforated with punches and by four o'clock they had about exhausted the pleasure spots of Luna.

"We ought to take another look-around for that suitcase," Jane reminded him, "before we think of going home."

"Righto," agreed Speedy.

They returned to the beach and located the spot again where the ill-fated luncheon had been parked. Not a sign of it. They were about to return to Surf Avenue and the subway when a little dog suddenly came running up to Speedy and almost flung himself upon the youth.

"Hey—easy, boy," Speedy called out, backing away. He liked dogs. This one was a cute, friendly little wire-haired fox terrier. He reached over to pet the animal but it frisked away from him. Speedy followed. The dog made for the boardwalk and disappeared underneath. Speedy bent over and tried to coax the animal out.

"Isn't he a smart one, Jane? Bright face and quick as a flash," called Speedy over his shoulder. Then he emitted a startled exclamation as he saw the hidden treasure that the nozzle of the dog was buried in. "Say—here's our thief, Jane," he

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chortled. "This pup's made off with our suitcase and parked it in here. He's been all afternoon getting it open. Now he's eating the sandwiches. Say, pup, you've got a terrible nerve."

Speedy went down on his knees and edged under the boardwalk. He reached the suitcase and started to take it out from under the dog's nose. Jane let out a cry of warning. Too late. Speedy was now on his feet examining the rifled suitcase, but the dog was not disposed to relinquish his find so easily. The animal came out with a rush and, half playfully, half savagely, leaped upon Speedy. The youth held the suitcase up over his head out of the excited dog's reach. But this only served to goad the animal to greater efforts. He became a ball of fury. His paws lashed out at the sandwiches, His sharp nails tore into Speedy's new suit and tore huge rents in it. Coat and trousers were rapidly being ripped into shreds.

"Hey—he-e-y!" yelled Speedy. "Cut it out!"

"Throw the suitcase away," cried Jane.

Instead Speedy strove manfully to make friends with the dog, patting him and talking to him and still holding the prize in the air. After a time the dog's wild efforts stopped and, tongue wagging and bright, not unfriendly eyes fastened upon the youth, he was still.

"Now that you've decided to behave, you can have the sandwiches," Speedy rewarded him, tossing them upon the sand. But the dog now wanted to play. He stood upon his hind legs in the characteristic begging attitude of trained animals. He ran

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up and down the sand with Speedy. They romped until both were exhausted.

"Oh, look at your clothes. They're ruined," chided the exasperated Jane.

For the first time Harold looked down at his prize suit and discovered its mutilated condition. It was almost falling off of him in spots. Bare flesh shown at both knees. One shoulder was torn until only the lining remained. Speedy sobered.

"Gee, we can't go into the subway with me looking like this," he said. "They'll arrest me for a bum."

"You haven't any money for a new suit either," said Jane.

"Oh, I'll make that quickly enough. But how are we going to get home?"

By now the little dog had disappeared as quickly as he had come. The sun was going down and the air was becoming chill. Speedy became conscious of this through the vents in his torn clothes.

While they stood there debating their problem, a solution on wheels came rumbling up Surf Avenue. A moving van. Speedy read the bright letters on its side.

"Look, Jane, there goes one of Jim Feeley's vans. It'll dump us a few doors from your house. Come on!"

They ran up the steps onto the boardwalk and into the street in time to head off the big truck.

"Hey, Herman!" yelled Speedy. "Give us a hitch!"

The big, red-faced, good-natured driver of the

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van looked around and saw what appeared to him like a ragamuffin in tattered clothes. He looked closer, recognized Speedy and stopped the van.

"Say, you been in a fight?" he asked. The two other men on the seat beside him looked at Speedy curiously and then began to kid him.

"Never mind that," interrupted Harold. "Give us a lift into town, will you?"

"Sure. Jump in the back."

Harold opened the huge doors of the van and helped Jane up. He followed.

"All set!" he shouted to the driver. And they were off.

It was comfortably warm inside the cavernous depths of the van. There was enough light to see that the only furniture they were carrying was a living-room suite. Speedy pulled down a couple of chairs from the heap they were piled in and Jane and he sat in them. Both of them were pretty tired. They congratulated each other on their luck. Practical Jane produced some pins and started to try and make repairs in Speedy's garments. He could scent the sweet perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. He liked Jane very much. More than ever before at that moment, alone in their cosy retreat.

The temporary repairs made as best they could, restless Speedy arose and looked around. The van contained a mahogany table and a reading lamp. A whimsical thought struck Speedy. He moved the pieces of furniture around until the interior of the van resembled a cosy little living room. To complete the picture, Speedy reached up on some

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piled chairs to bring down a rug that had been wrapped into cylindrical shape. The rug seemed unnaturally heavy. Harold leaned down and peered inside. A mummy-like, bedraggled gray form met his eye. It was the little dog that had stolen their lunch and with which Speedy had been frisking on the sand. He must have leaped into the van when Harold held the doors open. Nobody had noticed him.

"Hello, King Tut," greeted Speedy. "Come on out and join the party."

The little animal leaped down and scampered around the van. They were a mile from Coney now and Speedy hadn't the heart to push the dog out into the street. Besides, he had taken a liking to the evidently homeless beast.

When he spread the rug at Jane's feet, the little dog came over and curled up near them, utterly contented.

"I'm going to keep him. I'll call him King Tut. He's such a queer looking mummy," said Speedy.

Jane nodded indulgently and leaned down to pet the dog. Lucky dog, thought Harold. He sat beside her, strangely silent and thoughtful.

"Suppose you and I had an apartment," Speedy said at last. "And I'd just come home from work and we were talking it over."

Jane smiled. "And I'd say," she joined in the game of let's pretend, "How did you make out at the office today, Harold?"

"Oh, I cleaned up between ten and a hundred bucks," Speedy replied airily.
{{nop}}

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"That's wonderful," declared Jane. "We'll put it in the bank and maybe soon we can buy that darling little place in the country."

Speedy was very sober.

"Say, I'm an awful loafer," he said suddenly. "Tomorrow I'm going to land a good job—one that I'll keep. And I'm going to work hard and save my money and—"

"That would be great, Harold," Jane said warmly. "You're getting too old to be so happy-go-lucky and careless. Sometimes I think you'll never settle down."

"Oh, yes, I will. You'll see." He reached over shyly and took her hand. "And then can we get married, Jane?" he asked softly.

She did not answer for a minute or so. In the half-darkness he could not tell whether or not there were really tears in her eyes.

"We'll see," Jane said finally. "But you'll have to prove yourself first. You'll have to grow up and beaman. We're all so poor now." She added with a sudden recollection, "Unless granddad sells his franchise. I heard Mr. Carter talking to him about it yesterday."

Speedy scowled, "Oh, darn Mr. Carter," he exclaimed. "I don't like that fellow. There's something phoney about him."

"That shows how much you know about him," pouted Jane.

Steven Carter was the main topic of their conversation until the van came to a halt a half hour later and Herman, the Feeley's chief driver, opened

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the van doors and shouted, "All out, you joyriders. We're home."

The gathering darkness fortunately hid Speedy's bedraggled appearance as they walked up De Lacey Street toward the Dillon's house, Speedy still carrying the little suitcase that had cost him his new suit. King Tut trotted at their heels. Harold opened the door at the Dillons'. The light was burning in the living room. They walked into the unexpected spectacle of Steven Carter acting as nursemaid for the undershirted Pop Dillon and rubbing the electric vibrator over Pop's bowed shoulders. The old man was groaning now and then, and there was a bad gash under one of his eyes. Jane went up to him at once.

"Is your rheumatism worse, grandfather?" she asked anxiously.

"No, it ain't the rheumatism this time," Pop answered weakly. "A thug tried to beat me up when I brought my car back to the barn an hour or so ago. But I fought him off and I yelled so loud he finally went away. Afraid of the cops, I guess."

"I found him here in the living room groaning and almost exhausted," Carter explained. "He has a nasty cut under his eye. I bathed it. His back is hurt pretty badly too. I was trying to relieve his pain: but he should really see a doctor."

Speedy shot a quick, hostile glance at Carter. He had never liked him since the first time he laid eyes on him. His dislike was compounded half of a suspicion that the fellow was hanging around the Dillons for no good purpose and half of jealousy be-

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cause he thought Carter had his eyes on Jane. Speedy now stepped decisively forward.

"Give me that vibrator," he said rudely. "I always do that for Pop."

Carter looked at him sharply, then smiled and with a shrug handed over the instrument to him. Carter arose and started a conversation with Jane while Speedy took up the task of passing the soothing electricity over Pop's wounds.

"Now tell me exactly what happened," Speedy urged Pop. "It don't seem natural that a thug should attack you. You haven't an enemy in the world—unless you've developed them lately." He cast a significent look over toward Carter, but the latter's back was turned as he talked earnestly to Jane. Speedy wondered what she could see in this fellow, why she didn't order him to leave.

He turned abruptly to Pop. "What did this thug fellow look like?" he asked.

King Tut sat at Speedy's feet, his shrewd gray little head cocked on one side in the air as if he too wanted to hear the story.

-i

{{FreedImg
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—

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{{sc|"I didn't}} get a real good look at him," Pop replied to Speedy's questioning. "It was coming on dark and the lights in the barn hadn't been switched on. He was roughly dressed and he cussed at me something terrible. There were two pretty tough looking characters rode with me the last trip. They eyed me hard when I collected their fares. Probably it was one of them. And it seemed to me that there was another fellow lurking in the shadows of the barn. But the second one got no chance to get at me because I yelled so loud for the cops that they both got scared.

"One of them slugged me with a blackjack or something just as I was about to get out of the car. He hit me from the rear and I just happened to duck so that I took the blow on my sore back instead of on the head. If he'd ever happened to catch me square, I would probably have been knocked out. As it was, I was pretty near senseless, but I had enough left to grapple with him. He struck me once under the eye with his fist. The way it cut me up, he must have had brass knuckles on. I was yelling for help all the time. The thugs must have heard footsteps coming and they ran. Pretty soon Johnny Burke, the cop, and old man Walters, the delicatessen feller, came running in. By that time I was lying on my face in the car, all in.
{{nop}}

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"Johnny wanted to 'phone for an ambulance, but I knew that would scare Jane half out of her wits. So I told them I was all right, that I could stand. And I did. They supported me and I walked home. They just left when Mr. Carter came in fifteen minutes ago and said he would take charge of me. Mr. Carter offered to send a doctor friend of his around to see me tomorrow morning, but I don't want to put him to that bother. Maybe the doctor would make me stay in bed, and I can't do that. I've got to make at least one trip with the car. I'll lose my franchise if I don't."

Jane and Carter had stepped over near to Pop to hear the account of his adventure.

"I guess the man who attacked you was some drunk looking for trouble. This is a tough neighborhood," Carter put in.

"He wasn't drunk. He got around too spry for that," said Pop.

"And this isn't a tough neighborhood," Speedy cut in. "If there's any thugs around here they've come from some other section of the city—or they've been brought here."

Carter's sharp eyes stabbed him with a quick, unfriendly look. The underground worker wondered if this young Swift was really as naïve as he looked. He began to consider Speedy as an enemy that must be reckoned with if his scheme was to be successful. Perhaps the attentions of Puggy Callahan's gang might be more profitably directed at Speedy than at Pop. As Jane looked up at him, Carter's face resumed its wonted good nature.
{{nop}}

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"My friend is a very good doctor," said the star boarder. "I'll send him up first thing in the morning. Probably he'll advise you to stay off the car a few days and rest up. You may be hurt more than you think. And you're not young any more."

"I'll make at least one run in the car tomorrow if I have to be carried onto it," said Pop Dillon stubbornly.

"Yes—and if you need a doctor, ''I'll'' get one," said Speedy. "There's plenty of good ones around here."

Carter concealed his annoyance as best he could.

"I think it's very nice of Mr. Carter to offer to help us," soothed Jane, annoyed that Speedy and Pop both seemed to be taking such a thankless attitude toward Carter's efforts. "And please send your doctor up tomorrow, Mr. Carter. I'll see that granddad lets him make an examination."

"Thank you, Miss Dillon," said Carter with a little bow. "I'm sure that's best. And now good night, everybody. I've got some business uptown. Did you enjoy your visit to Coney Island, Swift?"

It seemed to Speedy that the stranger meant by that to remind him that the little outing had been possible only because the tickets were furnished gratis by him (Carter).

"We had a good time," Speedy grudgingly admitted. He wished now that the trip to Coney Island had been made on his own money so that he could now tear the admission tickets up and throw them into Carter's face.

"Thanks to you, Mr. Carter," Jane smiled

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sweetly. "It was awfully nice of you to give us the tickets. Wasn't it, Speedy?"

Speedy said nothing.

"By the looks of your clothes you must have gotten into trouble somewhere, as usual," offered Pop tartly, having noticed for the first time the tattered condition of Harold's garments.

"Perhaps Swift had an encounter with thugs also," observed Carter oilily.

"Don't worry," snapped Speedy. "If any of those roughnecks get in my way, they better watch their step. They or anybody connected with them."

"I bet you're a holy terror," agreed Carter with a sarcastic smile. He picked up his hat. "Well, I must be running along. Important business tonight. I'll send my doctor friend up, Mr. Dillon."

"I'll be all right," grumbled Pop.

With a very special good night for Jane, Carter left them.

"I hate that fellow," Speedy cried vehemently as soon as the front door had slammed shut.

"Oh, you're impossible, Harold," said Jane. "He's a perfect gentleman. And you didn't even thank him for the tickets. I'm ashamed of you."

"I'm sorry he gave us the tickets," Speedy replied hotly. "If we hadn't gone to Coney Island I might have been here to help Pop with that thug. Say, I wouldn't put it past that Carter to have deliberately framed it to get us away from here so as to put something over on Pop."

"Nonsense," sniffed Pop. "You've been reading

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too many underworld stories lately. People don't do those things in real life."

"Why don't you frankly admit you're jealous of him?" Jane joined in warmly.

"It don't come with very good grace for you to be calling people names and accusing them of frame-ups when you haven't even got a job yourself, and don't know where your next meal is coming from," said Pop.

Speedy frowned. He looked at his friends appealingly. Were they going back on him? Were they supporting this fellow Carter against him and ridiculing his suspicions? Resentment and a desire to show them what he could do welled up within the stout-hearted Speedy. Let them fight out their own battles for a while and he would fight his! He'd forget Carter for the time being and get a job. He'd get one that night, by golly. But where?

He recalled what Danny Ryan, one of the lads of about his own age with whom he had romped in De Lacey Street in his younger days, had told him. Danny was a taxi driver now. With tips and other extras Danny made a good living. He had told Speedy, "If you ever want to get a job driving a taxi, maybe I can put you wise to one."

Speedy abruptly picked up his hat and started for the front door.

"Where are you going, Harold?" asked Jane quickly, regretting now that Pop and she had spoken so sharply to him.

"I'm going to get a job—right now," Speedy

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replied. He kept on walking. Jane accompanied him to the door.

A little bark sounded at their feet. King Tut had run out into the hall with Speedy and was now asking permission to accompany him. Harold leaned over and picked up the gray, wiry bundle and patted it.

"I'd like to take him home with me," said Harold wistfully. "But my landlady would raise the dickens. She hates animals, except cats. She's got a whole flock of those—five more kittens this morning. She'd never allow me to keep King Tut there."

Jane smiled.

"Of course I'll keep him for you here," she offered. "I like him, and he'll be company when I'm alone. I'll bring a box up from the cellar, line it nice and comfortably and keep it in the kitchen."

"Would you, Jane?" flashed the delighted Speedy. "That's swell."

He handed King Tut over to her. As this transfer brought them very close together, he wanted very much to kiss her.

"I wish you luck," she told him shyly as he was leaving. "And—and I enjoyed the ride home in the moving van very much. It was the best part of the day."

"Did you, Jane?" he asked quickly, mollified at once and finding her very lovely in the half light of the {{SIC|door. Perhaps|door. "Perhaps}}—if I get my job and make good—it will come true some day?"

"Perhaps," she agreed softly.
{{nop}}

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But as he bent toward her eagerly, she smiled and quickly closed the door. He stood for a moment, wondering if there really was a deep significance in her last remarks. Then, head up, he walked quickly down the street. In the tiny room where he boarded, he took off his torn best suit and changed into a worn but whole one. He surveyed the ruins of his garments as they lay over the end of his iron bed and shook his head as he realized how much it would cost to have them repaired. Then he put on his hat, left the room and hurried down the front stairs. He increased his speed, fairly dashing down the first floor hall to the front door as he heard his landlady coming out of the kitchen and her harsh voice calling, "Is that you, Mr. Swift?" He did not relish the prospect of a conversation with her regarding his room rent at the present moment.

A car drew up at the curb in front of Danny Ryan's house just as Speedy reached there.

"Hello, Speedy. How's the boy?" a cheery voice greeted him from the seat of the car, a taxi bearing the legend Only One Taxi Co. on both its yellow sides. It was Danny Ryan, just in from a trip. Dan had explained previously and jestingly to Speedy that the taxi company got its name from the fact that only one passenger could safely be carried in the rickety cars furnished by his boss and then the cars were liable to fall apart. This was naturally not quite accurate, though certainly the fleet of vehicles sponsored by the concern were disreputable looking enough.
{{nop}}

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"I was just coming to your house. I want to talk to you," Speedy replied, walking over to the taxi and leaning in the open window.

"Good thing you didn't arrive a few minutes earlier," said Dan. "I just took that fellow that boards with the Dillons over to the river."

Speedy was all agog at once.

"Who do you mean—Carter?" he asked. "A tall, dark, well-dressed fellow with sharp black eyes?"

"Yeah. You don't act as if he was a friend of yours."

"He isn't. Say, where did you take him?"

"Well, now, ain't you the inquiring reporter though. I'm not supposed to tell you, you know—professional etiquette or something like that. But being that you're a friend of mine, I took him to that dump near the lumber yard where the Callahan gang hangs out."

Speedy was puzzled. "What would a fellow like Carter be doing over there?"

"Search me," said Danny. "I don't ask the customers their reasons for going to places. If I did, I'd have a lot of trouble and very little business."

Speedy made a sudden resolution. "Say, Danny, take me over there, will you? Drive me to the Callahan place. I want to look around."

"Sa-a-y, what are you getting at, anyway? Going to spy on Carter? This Callahan crowd are pretty tough guys, you know. You'll probably get your block knocked off if you walk in the door."

"Maybe I won't want to goin. Just hang around the outside. I've got a very special reason for

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checking on this Carter. Come on, be a sport, Danny. Give me a lift over."

"Well, I'm probably a sap for doing it—but hop, in."

Speedy was in the tonneau of the taxi in a flash. Danny occupied a single seat, the rest of the space in front being taken up with a rack for trunks and suitcases.

Dan drove swiftly and in a few minutes they were easing up to the curb in front of the squatty structure with the dirty sign, "P. G. Callahan Association," on the door. A dim glow shown from the interior of the place. It was a dark, shadowy neighborhood, with the oily river a block away glistening under the lights of a tug and her tow. The vicinity of the Callahan retreat was occupied almost exclusively with lumber and masons' material yards.

No policeman and, in fact, no other human being except themselves was in sight. Dan stopped the car and they looked around for a few seconds.

"I'm going in," Speedy announced with sudden resolution and was halfway out of the seat before Dan could remonstrate. "Don't worry," Speedy assured his friend. "I won't raise a row. If anything happens, I can handle myself. You know that."

Dan did. Speedy was known as just about the handiest youth with his fists in De Lacey Street.

"Well, if you're stuck on committing suicide, I'm with you," said Danny cheerfully, crawling out from behind the wheel and leaping down beside Speedy on the sidewalk. Danny was red-headed,

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built like a fullback and a good battler. Together they walked up to the shabby, unlighted entrance to the Callahan "social parlors." Speedy knocked on the door. After an interval a panel about four inches square cut in the door about on a level with Speedy's nose was shoved open and an inquiring eye stared into his.

"Who's there?" asked a gruff voice.

"Friend of Mr. Carter," Speedy answered boldly.

The eye continued to stare.

After a pause the voice {{SIC|said.|said,}} "Wait there a minute—you."

The eye disappeared. A few minutes that seemed an eternity passed. Then again the eye appeared at the open panel—no, it was a different eye. Speedy looked very hard, for, though he could not be sure, he had an idea that the new eye was the dark, shrewd optic of Steven Carter himself! Before he could verify this, the space again became blank. The door was unexpectedly pulled open halfway. Speedy, followed by Danny, walked in. A huge, unshaven man in the soiled sweater and dirty dungarees of a longshoreman confronted them.

"What are you two bimbos lookin' for?" he inquired belligerently.

"Is Mr. Carter here?" inquired Speedy.

"Nobody by that name around here."

"Then why did you let us in when I mentioned Mr. Carter's name?"

"Lissen—I let you in because I want to know what you guys are doin' hangin' outside there. And get this—I'm askin' the questions; youse ain't!

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Now come on in here. I got some friends want to look you over."

Danny glanced inquiringly at Speedy. It seemed to Danny that this was the strategic moment to make a get-away, and make it fast. But Speedy was evidently still curious. So he permitted himself to be almost pushed by his guide down the dark hallway and through another door into a lowceilinged room filled with toughs, smoke and guttural conversation. Danny followed.

The pool and card games that formed the chief evening diversion of the Callahanites were going at full blast. Speedy made out between ten and fifteen men in the small room, the toughest assortment of unshaven beards and hard faces he had ever seen gathered in one spot. He looked around in vain for Carter. And, indeed, it seemed almost inconceivable that the well dressed, educated star boarder could have any connection with this gathering of plug-uglies. Speedy wondered if Danny could have been mistaken in the identity of his late passenger.

He had no time to consider the matter further. For the entrance of Danny and himself seemed to have been a {{hinc|pre-arranged}} signal for action. The pool and card games stopped. The Callahanites were getting to their feet and edging over toward the two newcomers. Speedy, sensing danger, sidled nearer the door, now closed. The maneuver had the added advantage of putting a pool table between him and the nearest group of thugs. Danny hovered near his shoulder. The gangster who had

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let them in kept at Speedy's elbow. He now walked around and faced the youth.

"Come around here lookin' for trouble, did you?" he taunted. "Well, you're goin' to get plenty!"

Whereupon he started a huge fist viciously at Speedy's jaw. But the latter had seen it coming. He ducked. At the same time he swung an uppercut at his assailant, temporarily off balance from his missed blow, and caught him squarely on the chin. The man dropped. Instantly a swarm of unwashed bodies hurled themselves at Speedy and Danny. The air was full of fists and feet.

"Get the door open, Danny!" cried Speedy, at the same time seizing a pool cue lying on the table near him and flailing it lustily, butt end to, clearing a space in front of him. Grunts and groans ensued as Callahanites, attempting to rush him, met the thick cue handle. Danny, for his part, was fighting with two husky bums for the door knob. Even occupied as he was with the battle, Speedy became aware that a door on the other side of the room had been opened a few inches and a pair of eyes were peering out upon the fray. He had no time for a close scrutiny, but somehow he had the feeling that again in these strange surroundings he had encountered the eyes of Carter.

By now the Callahanites, baffled by the pool cue from making a direct attack, were resorting to strategy and weapons. Men were crawling on the floor toward Speedy, thus avoiding blows from the stick that had stood him so well. Then somebody hurled a pool ball that missed Speedy's head by an

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inch. The air became seemingly filled with the heavy flying missives and Speedy realized he must get out of there immediately. Fortunately at this juncture Danny, who had been almost neglected in a battle concentrated by design almost entirely on Speedy, achieved victory over his two assailants, and threw open the door.

"Beat it—quick!" shouted Danny.

Speedy, hurling the pool cue in the face of the nearest attacker, leaped through the open door, Danny in his wake. They scurried down the dark hall, yanked open the outer door and ducked down the sidewalk to Danny's waiting taxicab. Not twenty steps behind and in full cry came the members in good standing of the P. G. Callahan Association. Speedy mentally gave himself up for lost. Danny could never get the car started before these hoodlums would be upon them. But then, strangely enough, a sharp voice sounded from the entrance of the "clubhouse," the pursuing thugs stopped and then started to walk slowly back to their headquarters, allowing their intended victims to dash away at top speed.

It seemed to Speedy that the voice sounded familiar, though he had never heard it shouted so loudly or so authoritatively. It was, unless he was mistaken, the voice of Steven Carter. Carter, or whoever shouted the warning, had probably spotted the two policemen who were now passing Dan's taxi.

"Whew!" said Danny, when they were a safe two blocks away. "Nice people your friend Carter

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hangs out with. By the way, where was Carter? I didn't see him."

"I did—at least I think I did," declared Speedy. "He kept under cover, but I'm pretty sure he was there."

They were leaving the vicinity of the river now and were running through a better lighted and more thickly populated district.

"Say, why are you chasing up this guy Carter, Speedy?" Danny asked curiously. "Is it something about Jane?"

"Oh, no—a personal matter between him and me," Speedy answered quickly, though he knew this was not quite the truth.

"Well, have it your own way," sighed Danny. "Meantime, I've got to take this 'bus down to the garage and leave her. I'm off duty tonight. I'll drop you at your door if you like."

"No, I'll ride down with you, Danny. There's something I want to talk to you about. This Carter business put it out of my mind for the moment."

The garage of the Only One Taxi Co., was located three blocks east of De Lacey Street. Danny drove his cab up to the huge rolling doors and an attendant pushed them open. Between twenty and thirty cabs were parked inside the big armory-like garage. Several motors were running and the air was filled with the acrid smell of exhaust smoke and gasoline. Three or four men in overalls were working on some of the cars. Danny maneuvered his 'bus skillfully around the crowded floor and brought it to rest in a line of similar ma-

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chines. Then he walked over to a dinky little office where a light shone and a sleepy man with a green eye shade was working on some figures. Danny turned in his report while Speedy waited, checked out and joined his friend. In the interval Speedy had had a good look around. He liked the atmosphere of bustle and noise. He just knew taxi driving would appeal to him.

As Danny and he were covering the three blocks home, Speedy opened the subject.

"How do you like your job, Danny?" Speedy inquired.

"Oh, it's all right. Some days the weather is right and you get a lot of tips and I like it fine. Other days it's rotten. Why?"

"Well, I'm looking for a job. I can drive a car. You remember I used to drive the Ford for old man Gates, the groceryman, for a while. I've got a license. I'm a good driver. You said once there might be a chance for me to catch on with your outfit. That's what I really came down to see you about tonight—a job."

Dan considered it a while.

"Well," he said, "now that you mention it, Moore—that's the boss—fired two guys today. One of them smacked up two cabs lately against the 'L' stanchions on Sixth Avenue, and the other has been to court so many times over traffic run-ins with the cops that Moore had to get rid of him. There might be an opening down there at that. And I stand in pretty good with Moore. I tell you what—pick me up at seven o'clock in the morning at the

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house and I'll take you down and introduce you.—Then you can strike Moore for a berth. But I warn you—he's a tough baby. You got to watch your step and stick on the job if you're going to drive a taxi for that guy."

Speedy was elated.

"If I land the job I'll make good," he declared. "I've got to." A sudden thought struck him. "Say, Danny, there ought to be a lot of business in the next few days driving people up to the World's Series games at the Yankee Stadium, hadn't there?"

"You betcha," said Danny. "I expect to make a lot of dough. I'm going to hang out up around Times Square and pick the sports up."

"Do you ever run across any of the baseball players when you're cruising around?" Speedy inquired.

"Well, not often. Once I was up at the Stadium waiting for a guy who had told me to pick him up after the game and Gehrig and Shocker came tearing out and leaped into the cab before I could stop 'em. 'Drive like the dickens to the Pennsylvania Station,' they said, 'and don't see no traffic signs. We got to make a train for St. Louis.' I tried to tell them I had to wait for a guy. But they wouldn't listen. Shocker threatened to crown me if I didn't get goin'. Gehrig was gentler; he passed me a buck note and said he would make it five if I got them to the train on time. So I says, 'Let's go, gents' and stepped on her.

"I tore through the Bronx at forty-five knots an hour and down Fifth Avenue. Four cops stopped

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me, but they all let me go when they spotted Gehrig and he spilled the salve to them. I made the train for them with a minute to spare. Gehrig came cross with the five bucks and handed me a pass to the next Yankee home game besides. He's a nice guy."

"All ball players are good fellows," said Speedy in the sublimity of his faith. "My old man was a ball player."

"I know," said Danny Ryan, who had heard the story of Speedy. "What's he doing now?"

"Don't know," Speedy answered in a curiously small voice. "But some day he'll come back and with a wad of dough. I feel it in my bones. He was the best shortstop the Yanks ever had, not excepting Elberfeld."

"Yeah, he was a good player. My old man says so. So was Pop Dillon in his day."

They parted in front of Dan's house. Speedy would like to have stopped and told the good news to Jane, for in his own mind he was already driving a taxi for the Only One Taxi Co., but when he reached the Dillon house it was dark. He did not venture to disturb them.

Later that night in his hard iron bed Speedy dreamed of driving a Fifth Avenue 'bus with the whole Yankee team in it from their hotel to the Stadium. When they arrived there, each player gravely handed him five dollars and a pass to the game. All expect one man. And, strangely enough, this player was Speedy's own father. He had hundred dollar bills sewed all over his uniform and he plucked ten of them off and handed

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them to Speedy with a smile and a pat on the boy's shoulder. Then Speedy deserted his 'bus and went in and saw his father win the game with a home run in the ninth inning with the bases full. At that moment Speedy awoke with a start, discovered the sun pouring in his narrow little window and a cheap alarm clock screeching its head off from a chair near his bed.

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{{sc|"It's}} foolish you are to be goin' into the taxicab business," Ma Ryan lugubriously assured Speedy while he waited Danny's draining of his breakfast coffee cup in the Ryan kitchen the next morning.

"Why, Mrs. Ryan?" Speedy asked. He had arrived there before any of the Ryans were out of bed.

"It's risking your life to be drivin' around the way traffic is these days. Especially with half the drivers hoodlums and half-wits. And the turrible places you have to hang around to get your business—speakeasies and night clubs and such. Not to speak of the master brute of them all, this Jerry Moore that my Danny works for. We was girls and boys together down in Charleton Street and he was always a bullyin' one. He treats his help awful. With your careless ways, Speedy, you won't last half a day with him even if he gives you a job, which I doubt he will."

"Oh, lay off, ma," Danny yawned as he wiped his egg-stained mouth with a napkin and reached for his coat from the back of his chair. "Taxi drivin' ain't a bad life and Moore is all right if you're on the job. I don't believe you and him was such bad friends when you were young. At least he gave me a job right away when I told him I was Ellen Cassidy's boy."
{{nop}}

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"I didn't say we was enemies," amended Mrs. Ryan, a bit softened in mood by Danny's chaffing. He patted her cheek and kissed her. "Go long with you, now," she said. "And good luck to you, Speedy, though it's bad luck if you land the job with Jerry, I'm tellin' you."

"Got to hurry up," urged Danny when they reached the sidewalk. "I'm late. And Moore is a bear for having his men on time."

They walked briskly the three blocks to the garage of the Only One Taxi Co. The huge folding doors were open and the air was full of the smoke and noise of starting motors. They had to stand aside at the entrance to allow three or four yellow cabs to roar out. Once in, Speedy witnessed a strange ceremony. Each car, as it started on its daily round, was required first to speed up a sharply angled wooden runway on one side of the garage and come to a dead stop when halfway up the hill. Then it leaped forward again, proceeded at high speed over the top of the incline and down the other side. Halfway down, it once more came to an abrupt full stop and then was allowed to glide out into the street and on its way.

"Testin' the brakes," Danny explained to Speedy. "Taxi brakes always have to be workin' perfect. You'll smash up sure if they aren't. Moore insists on this test every morning before we go out and won't release a car if the brakes aren't O.K. All the big taxi companies work the same way."

They located Jerry Moore in his dinky little office. He proved to be a squatty red-faced man, with an

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unlighted cigar stuck at a belligerent angle in one side of his mouth. His striped shirt received full rein for the display of its brilliant hues because Mr. Moore wore no coat and his vest was unbuttoned. As if to compensate for this state of undress, a slightly soiled derby hat covered his head, concealing his baldness.

"Good morning, Mr. Moore," opened Danny.

"Hello, Ryan," said Mr. Moore in a husky voice that would have indicated approaching pneumonia in anybody else. "You're late."

"I was out digging up a man for you to take the place of either Daly or Angelo. This is my friend, Harold Swift. He's a good, experienced driver and he's anxious to work for you."

"He must be a pip if he's a friend of yours," was Moore's unflattering reply. He did not apparently notice Speedy's outstretched hand. "Ever drive taxi before?" This was shot at Speedy.

"No, sir, but I've driven all kinds of cars," said Speedy recklessly. "Driving automobiles comes natural to me."

"H'mm," grunted the taxi boss. "I've heard of those natural-born drivers before. Generally they land in the morgue. Say, are you the Swift that used to live with Pop Dillon? The one they call Speedy?"

Harold admitted it.

"How's Pop?" Moore asked with a softening of his usual harsh manner. "I heard he got beat up yesterday."

"He's all right. He's back on the car today."
{{nop}}

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"A great old guy—Pop," conceded Mr. Moore. "I wish I could have got a crack at the bozo that hit him." He manipulated the black cigar in his mouth silently for a few minutes. "Well, Swift," he finally opined, "probably you're a rotten driver and I'm a fool, but come on out and see what you can do. I'm willing to give any friend of Pop's a chance."

He led the way out into the garage. By this time only two or three taxis were left. Moore pointed to one of them.

"Get in," he told Harold. "Drive this 'bus over the incline and brake her coming up and down. Give her the gas too—like you was in a hurry in traffic."

Speedy climbed into the seat and grasped the wheel. The car was one of Moore's more ancient models. Speedy pressed the starter. The car burst into action with a terrific roaring of its motor and clouds of dark smoke.

"Advance your spark, you bum!" yelled Moore. "And don't give her so much gas."

Speedy obeyed. He manipulated the 'bus around to the front of the runway without any casualties. Then he shot the gas into her and fairly leaped up the incline. Halfway up, as ordered, he jammed on the brakes. But he did not throw them on heavily enough. The car started to slide back. Before he could stop it, it was off the runway and on the garage floor again. Without waiting for instructions, he tore up the incline again. This time he braked the car properly and went on over the top

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and attempted to stop her dead again. It wouldn't work. The flighty car kept on rolling and only within an inch or two of the side of the garage did Harold succeed in bringing her to a halt.

"Rotten," observed Moore. "You'll never make a decent driver."

"Aw, the brakes on that old 'bus are terrible," excused Danny.

"They ain't!" denied Moore sharply. "They were just taken up this morning."

Speedy saw his chances of becoming a driver for Moore going glimmering and looked very sad indeed.

"Give me another chance, Mr. Moore?" he asked. "I'll show you."

"Heaven forgive me but I will," said Moore. "Drive me around the block."

Moore climbed into the tonneau of the car. Speedy swung out of the garage at a snail's pace, resolved not to take any chances, and glided very slowly up the street far on the right side.

"What are you doing, falling asleep up there?" Moore yelled as they moved around the corner at about five miles an hour.

Speedy abruptly stepped on the gas, nearly flinging Moore onto the floor. The car picked up quickly, Within a few feet he was hitting up a terrific pace swinging in and out past trucks and other autos, tearing around the next two corners on two wheels and bringing the 'bus to a stop in front of the garage with a jerk that nearly tore her innards out.
{{nop}}

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"If I let you take that car out, you'll smash it and yourself too," said Moore grimly, alighting as if he was glad to be still alive.

"My father used to say I was the best driver he ever rode with!" offered Speedy, bringing every possible recommendation to his rescue.

"Who was your old man that he should know so much about driving cars," Moore asked scornfully.

"He was Speedy Swift, the Yankee shortstop."

"That so? As an auto driver, he was a swell ball player. I remember him. All right, in memory of the home run I saw your old man hit that won the pennant in 1905, I'll take a chance on you. But if anything happens to this car, it won't make any difference who your old man was. Your name is Mud and you're out!"

"O.K.," said Speedy joyfully.

"Take him down to the police and get him registered and mugged," Moore told Danny.

The two young men entered their cars and drove down to the Municipal Building without incident. In the traffic section of Police Headquarters, located in the basement of the building, a burly sergeant of police was interviewing applicants for taxi-driver permits. Speedy and Dan had to wait nearly a half hour for their turn. Finally Speedy was next.

"Speak right out and tell it to him," Danny advised. "The answer to most of the questions is, 'Report it to an officer.{{' "}}

The sergeant looked up grimly as Speedy stepped up in front of his desk. In a gruff voice he asked

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the boy his name, address and other details and inspected his license.

"What would you do if you were coming down a steep hill and both your foot brake and your emergency brake failed to work?" asked the cop suddenly.

Harold grinned. "I'd get out and jack up the car," he answered.

The cop half rose out of his chair. "What!" he roared.

"Oh, I was just kidding," Speedy hastened to add. "What I'd really do is throw her into reverse."

"Well, you don't want to attempt to kid me, young man. This is a serious business."

After a few more questions the cop reluctantly agreed that Speedy might at a stretch be entrusted with a taxicab. He was ordered to the next room to have his photograph taken. In another half hour Harold was again in his cab, the tonneau of which was adorned by a permit reading that Harold Swift was entitled to drive a taxicab and containing a bad picture of Harold and proclaiming to the world that this was a portrait of the driver and if anybody else was caught driving the cab a policeman should be summoned at once.

"Now you're all set, hey?" said Danny Ryan cheerfully, standing beside the proud Speedy as he reclined behind the wheel of his chariot. "Just follow me up to the Hotel Envoy. You're to take Tom Daly's old stand and work around that neighborhood there. It's a good hangout too. Plenty of juicy tips."
{{nop}}

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"Don't Babe Ruth and the rest of the Yankees stop at the Envoy when they're in town?" asked Speedy with sudden interest.

"Sure," said Danny. "But you won't tote any of them around. Most of those fellows drive their own cars."

"That's so," said Harold, disappointed.

Dan went back to his car and the two youths started slowly to proceed uptown together, keeping sharp eyes toward the sidewalks for possible fares. Dan was hailed by a corpulent gentleman almost immediately and swung in toward the curb. He waved his hand to Speedy and shouted "Good luck." And thus Speedy was embarked upon his new career, alone at last and feeling much like an aviator who had taken off in his first solo flight. Through the mirror attached to his windshield Speedy could see Danny swinging an are on Lafayette Street and heading back downtown.

For several blocks Speedy trundled on. He began to suspect that the vehicle assigned to him was not one of Moore's first string. It rattled and wheezed a lot and the motor gave forth choky sighs when he put it into gear after being stopped by traffic. Near Washington Square, Speedy detected a pair of middle-aged women beckoning him, and slid to a stop beside them. He had noticed them from far down the street and wondered idly why they had allowed three or four empty taxis ahead to glide by before hailing him. He held the door open for them and they sank heavily into the smelly leathern depths of his machine.
{{nop}}

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"Paramount Theatre," said one of his fares.

He knew from experience that the huge playhouse was not open at that time in the morning, but Danny had cautioned him not to argue with his passengers or offer unsolicited advice. He swung the flag on his taximeter and started.

A few blocks farther along, one of the women touched his shoulder and asked sharply, "Young man, are you the correct driver of this taxi?"

"Sure," grinned Speedy, risking the lives of all of them by turning around and facing her in the midst of a traffic jam. "I get you—the photo doesn't look much like me. I look different with the cap on. Us handsome fellows don't take a good picture."

He chuckled and resumed his driving, amused that his two passengers probably thought he was a gunman or an auto thief. With no further incident he brought them up smartly to the 43rd Street side of the Paramount Theatre. The two women got out and peered around in some confusion. At least they registered confusion, though to Speedy's mind, trained by the New York streets to be wary, it looked like acting.

"Are you sure this is the Paramount Apartments?" the harder faced one of the two women asked.

"No, ma'am, Paramount Theatre—where you asked to go," said Speedy promptly. Caution told him to get down on the sidewalk beside them, and he did.

"I certainly did not," the woman said sternly. "I said Paramount Apartments. I thought you knew

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where they were—Park Avenue near 49th Street."

"Jump in and I'll take you there," Speedy offered.

"No," said the woman. "We've wasted enough time with you. You've brought us clear out of our way now. With all this traffic it'll take another half hour to get over there. We'll walk. Moreover, since you've driven us wrong, we won't pay our fare."

"Oh, yes, you will," Speedy replied gently but firmly. "You said Paramount Theatre and I've brought you here."

"We won't pay. Come on, Maude."

Speedy laid a detaining hand on her arm. "Listen," he said. "You guessed right—I'm green at this taxi business. But I've been around New York a long time and I've got a friend who's driven taxis for five years. He says, 'When the customer won't pay, call a cop.' And there's one standing right there on the corner of Broadway. Shall I call him?"

The woman glared at him. She hesitated, then opened the handbag she was carrying on her arm. She examined its contents.

"Well, what do you know about that!" she ejaculated in simulated surprise. "I've come away without my money. I couldn't pay you even if you'd earned it. I haven't a cent."

"How about your girl friend?" asked Speedy, indicating the other woman.

"Oh, Maude hasn't any money. It was my treat."

"Then, I'm sorry but you'll have to bust the dollar you've got sticking in your glove," mildly suggested Speedy.
{{nop}}

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The woman shot a glance at him that was intended to freeze him to the spot. But she produced the dollar, the edge of which Speedy had detected protruding from her glove. He nonchalantly counted out her change. She thrust it into her purse and, head high, the two "ladies" hurried on their way.

"Thanks—and good-bye," Speedy sung after them. He swung up behind his wheel again. "Well, well, all kinds of dames to make a world," he chortled to himself as he turned his car around and headed across Broadway toward the Envoy.

The Envoy was one of the better class hotels located east of Broadway. Its thriving trade made it a profitable taxi rendezvous. "Stand for 4 Taxis" read the sign near its entrance. It already held its, full quota when Speedy arrived and the heavy traffic in the street made it impractical for him to edge in. Nevertheless he tried, blocking the entire street as he swung his cab broadside and tugged in toward the curb inch by inch. He was not allowed peace long.

"Hey, taxi!" yelled a policeman. "There ain't no room there. Get out! Drive around the block. Jump in the river. Do something."

Speedy complied by backing out and driving slowly around the block. He was rewarded by discovering when he returned that one of the four occupants of the space had found a fare. He eased in at the end of the line behind the other three. At the end of twenty minutes the last had become first. Then came the welcome whistle of the uniformed

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starter and Speedy jerked up to a stop in front of the carpet leading across the sidewalk from the Envoy door.

A young man and lady whose clothes and suitcases fairly cried aloud their newness invaded his chariot. The man helped his consort in very solicitously and refused Speedy's offer to take the suitcases in the front seat beside him.

"We want to go to the station," said the young man in embarrassed tones.

"What station?" asked Speedy patiently.

"Why, er—Grand Central. Sure—Grand Central."

"Don't mean Pennsylvania, do you?" Speedy asked, thinking Atlantic City from the looks of them and from the few tell-tale grains of rice that still lingered in the folds of the girl's hat. She was a pretty girl too. With a little break of luck this might some day be Jane and he, Speedy thought suddenly.

"Why, you get the Atlantic City train from Grand Central, don't you?" said the young man quite positively.

"Certainly—we always take it from there," offered the girl bravely.

"Don't worry, folks. Leave it to me," said Speedy cheerfully and drove them over to Sixth Avenue and safely to the Pennsylvania. He got a fifty cent tip for his pains. He helped them hand their bags to the porter and watched them following their Mercury. They walked a little pinchedly, due to their new shoes, evidently bought for the occasion. But the honeymooners were laughing and

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chatting and seemed supremely happy. Speedy sighed as he jammed his car into first speed and followed the stream of vehicles out from the tunnel into crowded Sixth Avenue.

At 38th Street a dark, thin young man, standing on the curb with a suitcase beside him, hailed him. Speedy drew up alongside.

"Give us a hand with this, will you," said the would-be fare in a low voice. Speedy wondered why a seemingly healthy person should be needing help with a single suitcase but he obediently took hold of the handle.

"Not there. Put your hand underneath. I'll give you a buck tip to take this up to 96th Street and Wellington."

Speedy lifted. The bag was abnormally heavy. Its contents gurgled. Speedy set it down with regret. The buck tip went glimmering.

"Sorry, mister, but I can't afford to carry that stuff," said Speedy. "I'm a green driver and a cop may hold me up any minute. Besides, general principles. Understand?"

"You're a sap," bit off the dark one disgustedly.

"I would be if I took that bag," agreed Speedy and was off with a wave of his hand.

The morning passed quickly. Speedy was kept busy. He transported old ladies to department stores and alert, nervous business men, who muttered unmentionable words at the roundabout routes the police forced Speedy's taxi to take, to business appointments. Some tipped him generously, some not at all. He had not yet learned to assume the

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characteristic cold, penetrating taxi man's stare when he was being paid that shamed patrons into handing out twenty-five cent largesses. He took them as they came, and thanked them. He enjoyed his jobs. Jolting around the New York streets in the open air, with the whole busy panorama of the city before him, was fun. People began announcing restaurants as their destination and, after dropping two chattering debutantes at Pierre's, Speedy discovered that he was hungry. He sought out a beanery on Sixth Avenue and parked his car outside. He bought a paper on the corner and walked in to the busy, aromatic depths of the hash house.

Several other taxi drivers were already occupying the chairs against the wall, chairs with one swollen arm on which steaming beans and coffee rested. Speedy ordered ham and eggs and coffee, bore his spoils to an unoccupied chair and looked around to see if he could find Dan Ryan. Dan had recommended this restaurant to him and said he would have lunch with him if he happened to be in the neighborhood. Evidently business had taken him elsewhere.

Speedy spread out his paper and started to read, dipping a fork into his repast as he did so. He was half-conscious of the hoarse-voiced talk around him.

"—so I said, 'Listen, if I drive you to Stamford I've got to be paid in advance. But if you ask me, I'll say I better take you to the Commodore and dump you there for the night.' And he says, 'Well, driver, use your own judgment.' So I takes him to the Commodore and gets him a room and he says,

-i

{{FreedImg
| file = Speedy (1928) 5.png
| caption = {{Speedy (Holman)/image banner}} {{uc|Speedy drives his idol, Babe Ruth, to the Yankee Stadium.}}
| width = 600px
}}

—

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'You're a smart driver. Here's a ten dollar bill and keep the change.' And sure enough it was—"

"—wrapped it right around an 'L' pillar and left it there. Can you beat it? Wonder what the taxi business is comin' to, hey, with a bunch of gunmen and gyps drivin' the 'buses—"

"—sure, Knockout Grady, the heavyweight, the guy that was goin' to fight Dempsey. Sure, he's drivin' a Yellow now. Looks like a featherweight when he's crouched down back of the wheel. Guy got in an argument with him yesterday about the fare and offered to knock his block off. Grady uncoils himself from the wheel and gets out of the cab. 'You're welcome to try, mister,' says Grady, 'but in the interest of your family I think I should warn you that I'm Knockout Grady and there ain't the bozo that lives that can put me down for the count.' With that the guy does a fadeout at sixty knots per hour—"

But Speedy heard little of this gossip of his trade. Having finished the last of his soggy lemon meringue pie and bitter coffee, he was deeply engrossed in the sporting page and the chances of the Yankees in the first of the World's Series games to be played at the Yankee Stadium that bright, sunshiny afternoon. When he finally finished the detailed account of the dope, he looked up at the big clock on the opposite wall and discovered it was quarter after two. He sprang up, paid his reckoning to the henna blonde behind the cashier's counter and mounted his faithful 'bus.

The car seemed to have developed more aches

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and pains during the noon hour. Speedy decided he would have to put in a little overtime tightening her up that night. He turned the corner into 47th Street. A fussy, white-haired old man with a cane was making motions at him from the curb. He stopped, backed up and opened the door.

"Why don't you stop when you see me attracting your attention?" complained his fare, red-faced and irascible.

"Stopped as soon as I saw you," chortled Speedy, with a mental note that here was an old boy that had to be handled carefully.

"Union League Club," snapped the fretty one.

Speedy started for Broadway.

"Here, here, where are you going? It's the other way," directed the old man, tapping on the window with the handle of his cane.

"I know it. This is a one way street," explained Speedy.

He finally reached 42nd and swung East. He was not particularly sorry when he unavoidably bumped into two or three bad holes en route. The old gentleman shouted some ungentlemanly exclamations but Speedy paid no attention. What he did pay attention to was the fact that these jolts had done his already wounded car no good. Its squeaks and rattles grew louder. Speedy wondered if the 'bus was going to last the day out. So, evidently, did his fare. There was more tapping at the window. Speedy looked around.

"Young man, is this car safe?" asked his passenger. "Sounds as if it was going to fall apart."
{{nop}}

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"If it does, we're both in the same boat," said Speedy.

He finally maneuvered up to the curb at the Union {{SIC|Leauge|League}} Club, having made a full turn in the middle of Fifth Avenue under the nose of a cop at the risk of his fenders and his license.

The old gentleman, still swearing, alighted. He drew out a well-worn purse. Suddenly he stopped, seized Speedy and cried, "I'm going to have you arrested. Just as I thought—you've no business to be driving this car. You've picked me up under false pretenses. I'll have you arrested."

Then Speedy saw that he was pointing excitedly to a sign hanging near the taximeter. "This Cab Out of Order," read the card. Speedy took in the situation in a flash. The "Out of Order" sign had been jolted down when he hit the bumps on 42nd Street. But he would never be able to explain this satisfactorily to his fare. And a broad-shouldered policeman, attracted by the old man's shrill cries, was approaching from the corner. Without waiting for his money, Speedy leaped back into his car, threw it into gear and shot into the stream of traffic.

"You can't get away," the old man cackled after him. "I got your number from the license in the tonneau. I'll report you, never fear. And I'm a member of the Streets and Highways Commission, don't forget that."

The green lights, Speedy saw gratefully, were set in his favor. He did not venture to look back until he was five blocks away. Then he started to worry.

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He did not doubt but what his crabby passenger would do as he threatened. He was just the type. Moore, already only half sold on him, would certainly count this as a mark against him. Would it lose him his job? Well, for one thing he would prevent himself from being stopped by the first cop that spotted him. He reached out and snapped up the "Out of Order" sign into place. The 'bus wasn't out of order. A little the worse for wear maybe, but able to navigate. He would finish out the day with her and, if he was still in the employ of Moore when he quit that night, he would either repair her or demand a new car.

He turned into a side street and drew up beside the Hotel Envoy, with two taxis already ahead of him.

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{{sc|It}} has been said that the best way not to meet somebody you are anxious to avoid is to live in the same New York apartment house with them. In the metropolis one seldom knows the name of the persons occupying the next rooms and the family the next house away might just as well be living in Dubuque. It is the city of strangers.

But De Lacey Street is different. De Lacey Street is one of those all too rare New York communities within the great city that are little worlds of their own. In De Lacey Street neighbor knows neighbor by his or her first name. They gossip and quarrel and make friends again and share each other's little sorrows and triumphs. The success attained by the sons of the Widow Feeley is a matter of neighborhood pride and the happy-go-luckiness of a Speedy Swift concerns the whole street, especially with the knowledge that pretty Jane Dillon thinks so much of the boy.

And the struggle of Pop Dillon to keep his horse car and his franchise against overwhelming odds was watched sympathetically by everybody from Walters, the delicatessen man, to Johnny Burke, the cop.

For Pop Dillon, with his kindly smile and his cheerful politeness, was the favorite of the block.

So Jane received many a telephone call as to his

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condition the night Pop was hurt and there was great rejoicing when it was learned that the veteran would be back on the job as usual the next morning.

And early that morning, which was the same day that Speedy started his career as taxi driver, Jane received news over the 'phone from Chris Walters that made her resolve to accompany Pop on his first trip in the car that day.

Pop arose at his accustomed time that morning.

"I'm going to go down to the barn with you and ride on the first trip," Jane told him.

"Oh, I'll be all right, Janie," he assured her, thinking she was not sure of his fitness for his toil.

"I know you are. But I've got nothing to do and I'm lonesome."

He accepted this excuse, for he knew that Jane was lonesome at times and she often accompanied him on his rounds in the car. Though neither sensed it, there was an air of suppressed excitement up and down De Lacey Street as the young girl and the old man walked along, the pace necessarily slow because Pop walked painfully. Eyes peered at them from behind half opened doors and curtains.

"See anything of Speedy after he left you last night?" Pop asked.

"No—and I don't care to," Jane replied spiritedly, though she didn't mean it. "After what he said about Mr. Carter, who was so nice to us, I should think he ''would'' stay away for a while."

"Wonder if he's landed a job."

"Oh, do you suppose he has, and that's what's

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keeping him away?" Jane's anxious tones betrayed her.

"He'll be around tonight," Pop said. "And I wouldn't go scolding him about Carter. After all, we don't know much about this Carter and it's been my experience that Speedy don't usually go so far wrong sizing people up."

Pop unlocked the big door of his car barn with his old-fashioned key. He fed his faithful old mare and waited patiently while the animal ate her breakfast, occupying a bench with Jane alongside the wall. When Nellie had quite finished her succulent repast, Pop curried and polished her gray-white skin until it shone. Then he put the harness on her and led her to the shafts of the car. With Jane standing beside him, he clucked, "Gid-dap," and the first daily trip of the Crosstown Railways was under way.

What happened then lived long in Pop's memory.

De Lacey Street had decided to hold a celebration in honor of their friend and neighbor, Pop Dillon. Between the time Pop and Jane disappeared into the barn and came out again, the street had been transformed. Banners hung from windows and store fronts. "Here's to Good Old Pop Dillon," read several. "Good Luck to Our Neighbor, Pop Dillon," proclaimed another. "Long Life, Pop!" was emblazoned on a third. Similar signs were pasted on merchants' windows. People were hurling confetti and colored streamers from upstairs windows. Small boys were tooting horns and blowing whistles. It was a gorgeous din and confusion. Even old

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Nellie pricked up her ancient ears. Pop stared in amazement. Jane was flushed with excitement and surprise. So this was why they had called her up to make sure Pop would be on the car that day. They had evidently been planning this fete for a long time. Those banners could not have burst into being over night.

And suddenly as Pop stopped on the first street corner to take on the one stray lady who waited there, forty or more people leaped forth from their place of concealment on the other side of Walter's delicatessen store and clamored to get on the car. They were laughing and bantering at Pop's wondering face. They streamed in the front entrance of the car past him. They shook his hand, shouted congratulations and good will. Several pressed bouquets of flowers into his hands and into those of Jane. They even decorated Nellie's harness with posies. They insisted upon Pop collecting their nickels, that they were paying passengers. There were so many of them that half had to stand up and there was even a bevy out on the platform standing beside Pop.

"Half of you out!" shouted Chris Walters, who appeared to be the ring leader in the celebration. "Nellie ain't as young a lady as she used to be."

So the majority of the riders piled out and walked alongside the car shouting while Pop drove in a triumphant parade up the street. Occupants of windows and store entrances hailed him. Johnny Burke, aided by four other policemen, held up all traffic except Pop's antique vehicle.
{{nop}}

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At the other end of the line the passengers noisily descended to the street and there was another carful waiting to take their place for the return trip. De Lacey Street knew that Pop Dillon would not accept a donation of money. But he could not refuse the fares of legitimate riders on his line; the law forbade it. So they rode and paid in triumph.

For three or four trips back and forth this lasted. Then Jane, at first overjoyed and touched at this homely tribute being rendered her grandfather, now began to watch the old man carefully. Was the excitement proving too much for him? His face was paling and perspiration stood out on his forehead. The lines were trembling in his hand. She was about to speak to him and suggest that he let her take a turn at driving, as she had often done, when he without a word collapsed and crumpled in a heap on the floor of his platform.

Jane cried out and leaped to his side. But the strong arms of Chris Walters had already gripped Pop. As if understanding what had happened, Nellie stopped abruptly. Chris roared to the people to get off the car and carried Pop to his delicatessen store, in front of which the car happened to be at the moment. Jane brought a glass of water and splashed some in Pop's face. From some unknown source Chris's husky son produced something stronger and forced it down the elderly man's throat. His eyes fluttered and he regained consciousness. In a moment he seemed to be entirely himself.

"That was a darned silly thing to do," he said

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apologetically. "Let me get up. Of course I can stand." And he did.

"Jake Pope drove your car back to the barn," said Chris.

"What for?" asked Pop. "I can drive her. I got a day's work ahead of me."

A tall, dark man pressed forward through the ring of people to Pop's side. It was Steven Carter. The De Lacey Streeters looked curiously at him. He was the man of mystery who had come to board with the Dillons. He must be all right if the Dillons had taken him in, though he didn't look as if he fitted in the neighborhood.

"Won't you come with me, Mr. Dillon?" Carter asked in his velvety tone. "I've a taxi waiting outside with my doctor friend in it."

"Yes, do go, granddad," urged Jane.

Pop really still felt rather weak and, despite his stubborn declaration that he was going back to the car, he allowed himself to be persuaded to seek the taxi instead. There Carter introduced Jane and her grandfather to the portly, smooth-shaven man who was sitting in the tonneau of the car smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder with an air of sangfroid. He had a little medicine case with him. His name, according to Carter, was "Dr. Mason."

When they reached the Dillon home, it took the combined efforts of Jane, Carter and the doctor to induce Pop to lie on the divan while Dr. Mason conducted an examination of him. Mason produced stethoscope, mouth sticks, blood pressure hose and

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other paraphernalia from his satchel and went through a very professional probe.

When he had folded up and tucked away the tools of his trade, he announced, "Nothing organically wrong at present, Mr. Dillon, but there are several indications that there will be very soon unless you give yourself a complete rest. In fact, a rest is absolutely necessary, and at once. You must get away from your work and your present environment. Now what I would suggest is a sojourn of a week or so at Spring Lake Sanitarium in Connecticut. It is a health resort run by a doctor friend of mine—very cheap and not very far from New York. But you must get away at once—today."

"But I can't do that. I must run my car or I lose my franchise. If a single day goes by that I don't make a trip, I'm ruined."

Carter spoke up. "I have a reliable man who will run your car for you," he said promptly. "I lined him up after your—er—accident yesterday. He understands horses. In fact he is an ex-jockey. And I myself will look after him and see that your car makes its regular trips."

Pop hesitated. He really was feeling badly. He doubted if he was equal to going back on the car for a day or so. He was so very tired. And his back pained him cruelly.

As if guessing his thoughts, Dr. Mason says, "Spring Lake Sanitarium specializes in back trouble. They have baths that are very soothing and special electrical apparatus that works wonders."
{{nop}}

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Pop hesitated. He looked questioningly at Jane. She was in a quandary. Pop looked very badly; certainly he needed a rest. Oh, if only Speedy were there to advise her. For harum-scarum as he was as a rule, he usually knew the right thing to do in a pinch. Certainly if she allowed Pop to stay on the job and anything ''did'' happen to him, she would never forgive herself for not having insisted upon his going away for a rest. Surely this Doctor Mason knew his business. And Mr. Carter, though she did not fancy the sharp, almost possessive way he looked at her sometimes, had been very kind.

"You'd better take Dr. Mason's advice and go to Spring Lake for a few days, granddad," Jane said. "Mr. Carter and I will see that the car runs. You won't have a thing to worry about. And you can get treatments for your back."

In his weakened condition Pop Dillon's fighting spirit was about gone. If Jane trusted this fellow Carter, certainly he could. He nodded his acquiescence.

"Guess it wouldn't do me any harm," he agreed.

"Fine," said Carter at once. "Miss Dillon will pack your bag and she and I will ride with you to Grand Central. You just have time enough to make the noon train."

So Jane, with her heart heavy and doubt still lingering in her mind, laid Pop's spare clothes neatly in his battered old suitcase. She persuaded him to change his working garb for his "Sunday suit," helping him with his dressing, for the old man was quite feeble. Carter summoned a taxi. Dr. Mason

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had departed. The star boarder was very cheerful as he and Jane helped the old man down the front steps and into the waiting cab.

During the ride uptown Pop Dillon, still worrying about his car, issued a constant stream of instructions as to just how the trips were to be made. He regretted that he had not the time or opportunity to inspect Carter's substitute driver and was concerned as to how the new man would treat old Nellie. Jane and Carter strove as best they could to reassure him.

They secured him a comfortable seat in the Hartford Local and set his suitcase up in the rack. Pop carried a letter of introduction from Dr. Mason to the proprietor of the Spring Lake Sanitarium. As a further precaution the physician had offered to telephone Spring Lake that he was coming so that the sanitarium 'bus would be at the station to meet him.

"Tell Speedy to go down to the car barn tonight and see that everything is all right," were his last words to Jane before the conductor cried, "All aboard," and they were forced to leave him. "And tell Chris Walters how sorry I am that I can't come down and play that game of pinochle with the boys in the car as he planned."

Jane kissed him, Carter shook hands, and in another moment Pop was on his way and they were out in the vast Grand Central concourse with the milling crowds.

"Oh, do you suppose everything will be all right?" Jane asked dubiously.
{{nop}}

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"Of course," said Carter. "And now suppose you and I get a bite of lunch."

He took her to the Biltmore, an elegant hostelry she had never visited before. The splendor of the place dazzled her. Carter addressed the majordomo at the entrance to the restaurant by his first name and that impressive official called him "Mr. Carter" and led them to a choice table. Jane was tremendously thrilled.

"After all, this is the only proper setting for a pretty girl like you," Carter flattered her, after they had given their order. And as he leaned across the table intimately toward her, she did look very beautiful indeed, her face flushed with this new experience and her worry over Pop.

"It is the first time I have ever been here," she confessed simply. His ardent tone embarrassed her.

"But not the last, I hope—with me," he urged.

She blushed. He was an attractive man in a dangerous sort of way—dark, polished, handsome.

While they were talking, Carter caught the eye of a stout, gray haired, distinguished looking man who was lunching alone at a table near them. The latter made a little beckoning motion with his head. Carter excused himself and went over to him. It was President Donaldson of the Inter-City Railways. Carter slid into the vacant chair beside him.

"How are you coming with the Crosstown business?" Donaldson asked.

"Fine. It's as good as closed," Carter replied. "Tomorrow I'll have the papers signed. It will take all of your $75,000, however."
{{nop}}

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"It's worth it to get that spur," the President said. "But mind—no funny business, Carter. We want to secure this property legitimately. The way transit conditions are at present we can't afford any underhanded business."

"Don't worry. Everything will be above board," assured Carter.

He returned to the table where Jane had been demurely waiting.

"That's a traction friend of mine," he told Jane. "I tried to interest him in your grandfather's franchise, but he says it's worthless."

"I'm glad granddad isn't here to hear you say that," said Jane. "He thinks the property will bring a lot of money some day."

"I wish he had accepted the $1,000 offer I made him the other day," said Carter. "I'm afraid it's too late now." Then he leaned toward her and flashed his smile. "But don't let's talk about business now. This is our day. Let's go for a long ride or something."

"I couldn't," declared Jane. "I've got to go home. I haven't done a tap of work in the house today."

"A good-looking girl like you shouldn't have to work," cajoled Carter. "You should wear dazzling clothes and jewelry and have luncheon here every day."

Jane laughed as if this were a great joke. The waiter arrived with their food and they were silent for a while.

While they were awaiting their dessert and coffee,

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Carter remarked, "You'll be lonesome in the house there without your grandfather, won't you?"

"Oh, I'll go and spend the night with Daisy Ryan. I always do when granddad's away or going to be late. I'll see her when I get back to the house."

Carter produced a fat wad of bills and it took a considerable number of them to pay the check, with a generous tip that caused the waiter to offer an obsequious and extra "Thank you" and help Jane on with her coat. Since it was the Inter-City's money, Carter could afford to dispense it liberally.

As they gained the sidewalk outside the Biltmore, Jane uttered a sudden cry of recognition and flew across the sidewalk to a taxicab driver, who, having just opened the door for President Donaldson to enter, was about to mount to his wheel.

"Oh, Danny," Jane cried. "I'm glad I ran into you. Will you please tell Daisy when you get home that I'll be down to spend the night?"

"Sure," Dan replied, at the same time directing a sharp look at the waiting and somewhat annoyed Carter. "Have you seen Speedy?"

"No. I've been looking for him."

"Didn't you know he got a job driving a taxi for the Only One outfit? He's in this neighborhood somewhere. I was supposed to have lunch with him but I missed him. He—"

"Young man," came a vexed voice from the tonneau of Danny's car. "Are you going to drive this car or hold a conversation with this young lady? Because if you are—"

"Right with you, sir," called Danny. And to

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Jane, "Sorry, Jane, I've got to beat it." He jumped up into the seat and was off.

Jane returned to Carter, who was tapping an impatient and highly polished toe on the sidewalk.

"That's Daisy's brother," Jane explained. "I had to tell him about tonight."

Carter recovered his good humor. He hailed the next taxi.

"Sure you won't take a little ride through the Park first?" he asked.

Jane shook her head and he reluctantly told the driver to convey them to De Lacey Street.

The taxi threaded its way slowly through the traffic of Madison Avenue and across the maelstrom of wheels, gasoline and scurrying pedestrians that was 42nd Street. A quick thrusting on of brakes a few blocks farther on threw Carter against Jane, and he did not bother to move back into his former position, though she glanced at him disquietingly a few times. He went on chatting to her, his tones becoming ever more personal and softer.

"In the short time I've been with you, I've grown very fond of you—and your grandfather—Jane," he told her. And added slyly, "If I may call you—Jane."

"You've been very kind to us," she faltered.

"It's been nothing. I'd like to do more for you," he declared.

Something warned her and she edged away from him a little.

"Don't you trust me?" he asked reprovingly.
{{nop}}

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"Of course," she said.

"I thought perhaps you had let that rash young Swift influence you."

"Speedy means well," she defended.

"He's got me all wrong," said Carter. "I believe—he's jealous."

Jane smiled uneasily. Carter's arm had stolen around her slim shoulder and was pressing her toward him. She had a mad impulse to shout to the driver to stop, to fling herself out of the taxi. But, she thought, that would be silly. She was no child. Besides, De Lacey Street could not be over five minutes away now.

The pressure on her shoulder increased. He was drawing her to him. She pulled herself impulsively away.

"Please don't do that, Mr. Carter," she pleaded.

"I beg your pardon," he apologized and, removing his arm, slid over to the other side of the seat. "You—made me forget myself. I've grown to like you so. I want to protect and father you, now that your grandfather has gone and young Swift has apparently deserted you."

She said nothing. Perhaps he meant no harm. He seemed so sincerely contrite now.

She did not know the disappointment that was welling up in Carter's sinister breast. He prided himself on his prowess with the ladies and he was loath to admit defeat in the case of this innocent, though very desirable girl. He decided he had been too precipitous. He would bide his time. It should be easier to win her, now that the old man and that

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young whippersnapper Swift were apparently both out of the way.

When they arrived at her home, he courteously helped her out and paid the driver.

"I hope you'll forgive my—er—impulsiveness," he asked her with imploring eyes.

She flushed and laughed. "You shouldn't say the nice things to me that you say to your fine ladies," she said. "Because I might believe you."

"But I meant them," he urged.

She changed the subject. "You'll be sure and send a driver for the car the first thing in the morning?" she asked. "Granddad wouldn't have an easy second if he knew there was a chance the car wouldn't take its regular trips tomorrow."

"I'll send him," Carter promised. "I'll telephone right away and verify his coming. Don't you worry. Leave it to me."

He shook hands and left her at her door.

As he had promised, he telephoned from the nearest point, the booth at the corner. But the call was directed to Puggy Callahan.

"Everything's all set," he told the redoubtable Puggy. "That car won't go out tomorrow. The only chance of anything going wrong is for this young Swift to get gay. And that's up to you. If I need you to take care of him, I'll give you a ring tonight or first thing in the morning."

"O.K., boss," came the guttural tones of Puggy.

Carter walked out of the booth very much pleased with himself and gave the gum-chewing miss in the drug store a flirtatious smile as he purchased from

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her one of her best cigars. In fact he felt so fine that on second thought he returned to the booth and gave the number of another of his agents.

"Hello—Mason?" he said when the connection was made. "Or I should say—'Doctor' Mason—the greatest guy that ever got kicked out of medical school for cheating in his examinations. Well, your knowledge of the bone-setting business sure came in handy this morning, 'Doc.' How about a big game of poker tonight? At my apartment. Good. Til get the boys together and we'll celebrate."

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{{sc|While}} Steven Carter was telephoning his "medical" friend, "Doctor" Mason, down on De Lacey Street, in front of the Hotel Envoy Speedy Swift was in line waiting for his next fare. Speedy was in no hurry. He had had a strenuous day so far and his right-hand coat pocket sagged with receipts. If his luck kept up, he was sure Jerry Moore would be well satisfied with the first day's activities of his new driver.

Speedy even ventured to draw forth the afternoon edition of the newspaper from his pocket and read over again the baseball dope, already digested along with his beans at the lunch room. He looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. The rival World's Series teams would probably be dressing now, preparatory to taking the field. He wished he had arrived at the Envoy a little sooner. He had retained in his mind the knowledge that the New York baseball team stopped there and possibly he could have conveyed some of them to the Yankee Stadium. By dawdling so long at his lunch he had missed picking up possible customers bound to the game too. It was too bad. He would have gotten a thrill from just seeing the outside of the Stadium and seeing the crowds pouring in.

In a second his thoughts were interrupted

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abruptly. A stocky figure came dashing out of the Envoy.

"Hey, taxi!" yelled the flying newcomer. "Snap out of it and buzz me up to the Yankee Stadium with all you've got! I'm late."

Speedy looked at him. His heart stood still. His mouth parted foolishly in an awed grin. Surely he could not be mistaken. He had seen this famous man's picture often enough. It was, it must be—Babe Ruth!

"Say," said Speedy, almost afraid to ask. "You're Babe Ruth, aren't you?"

"Sure," grinned Babe. "And I'm in an awful rush too. Just found out my car was out of commission."

"Will you—shake—hands with me?" asked Speedy.

"Sure—if it'll make you get five miles an hour faster out of that coffin you're driving."

He reached over, grabbed Speedy's hand and gave it a he-man's grip. Then he leaped into the cab and shouted, "Come on now, big boy. Bear down and get going."

Speedy sat up straight at the wheel and stuck out his chest. Already several pedestrians had stopped and were staring at the famous Babe. Speedy would like to have lingered longer. But the Babe was already hurling further demands for him to "step on her." Speedy stepped. The car leaped forward, nearly smacking into the motor ahead. Speedy whirled the wheel, avoided catastrophe by inches and was up at the crossing just in time to get the officer's

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go-ahead signal. He swung into Fifth Avenue with the uptown tide.

"Don't mind the lights. Take a chance. I know most of these cops," Babe urged.

Speedy obeyed. He notched up his speed ten miles faster than the law allows. A whistle shrilled. A bluecoat held up a halting hand. Babe thrust his grinning head out and shouted, "All right, Mike. It's me. Got to make the game." The cop smiled good-naturedly and motioned them on. Taking courage from this episode Speedy piled on more and more speed. The car shrieked and groaned. He dived from one side of the street to the other, trying to pass traffic. Babe was flung off the seat, recovered and clung desperately to the strap by the window.

At 60th Street a jam of cars held them up.

"Fast enough for you?" Harold turned and asked anxiously.

"I'll say so, brother," grunted Babe grimly. "If we're both alive when we get there, we'll be lucky."

The wild journey continued. Once above 125th Street traffic thinned a bit and Speedy pressed down more on his accelerator. A score of indulgent cops, at intervals, stepping sternly out to stop the flying taxi, drew back and waved them on when the familiar features of the Sultan of Swat saluted them.

But a half mile or so from the Stadium the law ceased to smile.

"You've got a couple of motorcycle guys after you!" Babe called out suddenly. "Speed up and fade them. They're no friends of mine. They must

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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-

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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

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headed for the game, for both hurried over toward the entrance to the grounds. Speedy began furiously to force himself into the midst of the throng again.

At the ticket office window, which he reached after what seemed an age, he tendered Babe Ruth's ten-dollar bill, most of which was rightfully his, for a ticket and carefully counted his change, to the disgust of those behind him. He had hardly gained the other side of the turnstile when the two motorcycle cops loomed suddenly behind him.

Without wasting a second look, Speedy started to run down the aisle bordering the last row of grandstand seats, dodging in and out among the people and nearly knocking a score or more down. A fleeting backward glance told him that the cops were right after him. One policeman started to shout at him to stop. Hands were jerked out to bar his path, but Speedy avoided them. The attention of the whole grandstand was diverted from the field, where the Pittsburgh team was holding fielding practice, and directed at the flying youth and his two pursuers. Strangely enough, most of the sympathy seemed to be for Speedy, for many voices shouted, "Beat it, kid," "Thatta boy, Jesse James" and the like.

Speedy swung abruptly to the right and ran down one of the inclined aisles, attempting to lose himself among the ticket-holders who were being shown to their seats by the ushers. He gained some ground in this way but when he reached the end of the aisle, with only the row of boxes between him and the

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field, he flashed a backward look and saw that his relentless pursuers were still on his trail.

Undaunted, he turned and dashed along the space between the back of the boxes and the first row of seats, leaving this avenue to leap up into the left field bleachers where the grandstand ended. He had nearly encompassed the whole field in this way and was very close to being completely exhausted and out of breath. He saw a door leading down into some subterranean depths below the grandstand, and tried it. It was open. He pushed in quickly and closed it after him.

"What's the matter, kid?" asked the booming, humorous voice that Speedy recognized. Babe Ruth, in uniform, was coming up from the Yankee dressing room to take his place on the field. Below, Speedy could make out the lockers, shower baths and rubbing tables that comprised the bulk of the fittings in the ball players' rendezvous.

"Those two cops are still after me," Speedy panted.

"That so?" said Babe. "Well, you just stick down here for a while till they beat it. They'll never think of looking for you down here. If they do, just tell them to get in touch with me. I got you into this trouble and I'll get you out." With which suggestion and promise the famous Babe hurried on his way.

Speedy, delighted to obey and awe-struck to be invited into the sacred precincts frequented by Babe and Gehrig and Miller Huggins and the other gods of the diamond, walked down the steps and into the

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athletic regions below. The faint smell of arnica, always present in locker rooms, was in the air. At first Speedy thought the place was deserted, but he soon heard voices in the other end of the room. A low-voiced conversation punctuated with a groan now and then. He walked down between the row of lockers and saw a ball player stretched out upon a rubbing table. One of his stockings was rolled down and a squatty little man was rubbing a badly swollen ankle with a pungent concoction out of a bottle.

"Easy, Barney, easy," the injured man was cautioning.

"The only way to reduce that swelling is to rub it out," grunted his masseur.

Speedy approached closely and was watching this operation with considerable interest when the man addressed as Barney saw him.

"Hey—what are you doing in here?" demanded Barney in a belligerent tone.

"Mr. Ruth sent me here," Speedy replied, not very much ruffled.

"He did, hey. Like fun he did. Now you get the—" Barney stopped his order abruptly. A light seemed to dawn upon his low, beetled brow. "Maybe he did at that." Barney abandoned his rubbing and walked over to the little office adjoining the locker room. He came out with a long, narrow bundle from which he removed the paper. Two long, narrow, yellow baseball bats emerged from the bundle.

"Here's what he sent you for," said Barney.

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"Beat it now and get them to him on the bench before the game starts."

Speedy grinned broadly. He was in luck. Not only had he brought Ruth to the game but now he had been made custodian of the famous slugger's two newest bats and had been appointed the Mercury who was to speed them to him. Speedy started up toward the door through which he entered these sacred precincts.

"Here, you—the other door," called Barney, eyeing him suspiciously.

Speedy dashed over to the exit pointed out to him. It led directly onto the field. The New York team was holding their batting practice and the field was alive with white-clad players. Speedy hurried down the field, keeping close to the grandstand and carrying his important burden proudly over his right shoulder. Babe was standing midway between the bench and the home plate leaning on a bat. Speedy approached him amid the curious glances of the other players and a glowering look from the Yankee's little red-headed mascot, who must have thought somebody had arrived to take his job away from him.

"Here's your new bats, Mr. Ruth," said Speedy, holding them out.

"Good. Thanks," said Babe. Then noticing who had brought them, "Golly, kid, you sure do get around a lot," he laughed.

It was his turn at bat at that moment and he dropped the stick in his hand and selected one of the new ones brought by Speedy. He tossed the two

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spare bats in toward the bench, where the red-headed bat boy seized them and lined them up neatly with the rest of the timber lying in a row in front of the Yankee dugout. Ball players, one of the most superstitious classes of human beings in the world, believe bad luck will befall the team which does not arrange its bats tidily before its bench.

Speedy stood a moment and watched Babe foul two balls, then hit one with his well-known full, graceful swing on a lazy fly out to deep center field. Speedy looked around with lively interest. He recognized several of the players, even among the gray-shirted Pittsburgh athletes in their dugout on the other side of the plate. He even began to entertain hopes that he might be invited to view the game from the Yankee bench. Imagine—the World's series and he, Speedy Swift, seeing it from the dugout, hearing all the inside dope, rubbing elbows with Ruth and the rest.

But these hopes were short-lived. A—short, wrinkled-looking little man in uniform, evidently the manager of the team, accosted him.

"You'll have to get out of here," he said in a not unkindly voice. "The game's about to start. You've got a ticket, haven't you?"

"Sure," said Speedy.

The little man held open the gate opening up from the field into an aisle leading into the grandstand seats and waited for Speedy to exit. Speedy went. Almost immediately he was met by an usher.

"Where's your ticket?" asked that individual.

Speedy felt confidently into his pocket, where he

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had put the precious paste-board. It wasn't there. In his rush through the stands and around the field he had evidently dropped it. Consternation seized the youth. But he did not allow it to appear on his face or his manner. The attention of the usher having been diverted by the demand of another patron to know where his seat was, Speedy ducked past the pair and up toward the higher reaches of the grandstand. He thought of slipping into the first unoccupied seat he came to, but he knew this ruse would not be successful. Upon the arrival of the rightful owner of the seat and the usher's demand that Speedy produce his coupon, he would be ejected, probably from the grounds as well as the seat. He must think of something else.

At the top of the aisle, he stopped to reconnoiter. He was near the big counter from which the white-coated purveyors of pop, sandwiches, other edibles and scorecards drew their supplies. A youth of about his own age bustled past him and spoke to a red-faced, fretty, derby-hatted man behind the counter.

"Mr. Todd sent me here. Said you was short," said the youth.

"All right. All right," whined the worried man in the derby. "You bet I'm short. How do they expect me to work this mob with the handful of ignoramuses they've given me. Come around here and get your outfit."

The youth went around the back of the counter, disappeared into a closet-like room, to step out almost immediately past Speedy in a white coat and

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hat and bearing on straps around his shoulders a big tray laden with merchandise to sell to hungry, thirsty and information-craving fandom.

Speedy hesitated no longer. He also strode up to the still worried man with the derby. His Smythe's Sweets Shoppe experience would come in handy now.

"Mr. Todd sent me here. Said you were short," said Speedy brazenly.

"Another one of you," sighed the derbied one. "Todd's waking up at last. Come around and get your outfit."

Speedy was around in a flash. In the compartment back of the counter he found caps, coats and trays neatly laid out on shelves. He helped himself to one of each. The cap was too small, sitting only on the topmost part of his head, but there was no time to be lost. The man in the derby selected an array of saleables and piled them on the tray, checking them on a little pad.

"Two sections to the right and down one—and go to work," said the manager behind the counter.

Speedy obeyed. "Peanuts, popcorn, chewing gum and corn crisp! All the players and how they go to bat! Can't tell the players without a score card! Ice cold pop, gents," sang out Speedy, having listened to the vendors at baseball games carefully and also having done this same type of job once before at a carnival. He knew the jargon. He could hurl a box of crackerjack twenty feet down a row of seats with the best of them and catch the patron's dime as it came spinning through the air

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{{FreedImg
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—

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with perfect nonchalance. The section he was working had evidently been virgin territory for quite a while, for business was very brisk.

"O.K., gents. Ginger ale?—sure! Sorry, can't change a five. Peanuts? Coming right up."

Through it all he took time to steal a glance down at the field now and then. Pittsburgh having been retired without a run in the first inning, the Yankees were now coming to bat. Two men went out on infield grounders and now Babe was to hit. Speedy rested his tray against his knee and, despite the clamors of his customers for his wares, watched the Babe take two healthy swipes at the ball without connecting and then send a long fly out to right field which the guardian of that pasture gathered in without moving more than a step or two. Speedy sighed. He started to dispense merchandise again.

"Why don't you pay attention to your job?" grumbled a pale, anemic fan who had been crying for lemon soda.

"Boy, if you can drink pop while the Babe's hitting, you don't belong here," replied Speedy tartly.

"That's right, kid," a well-dressed, elderly gentleman seated next to the complaining clerk approved.

Others took up Speedy's defense and in a few minutes the clerk was undergoing some good-natured razzing.

Speedy continued to do a rushing business. In another half hour his tray was completely empty. He had been allowing his interest to wander more and more to what was happening down there on the field and less and less to his business. It was

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the fifth inning and the score was a tie. Pittsburgh was coming up for their half of the sixth, with the heavy hitters at the head of the batting order out to break up the ball game right then and there. It was too much for Speedy. If Speedy went back for more stuff to sell, as he knew he ought to do, he would miss one of the crucial points in the game. Besides, another meeting with the harassed man with the derby might result in the discovery that the unknown (to Speedy) Mr. Todd had not sent him there at all. Speedy slipped into an empty seat high up in the Stadium and, resting his tray on his knees, concentrated on watching the game. From this vantage point he saw two innings played, the score remaining a deadlock. Several boys with trays passed him, glared and made remarks. Speedy paid no attention to them.

But now he saw a pair of ominous looking blue coats approaching up the aisle from the direction of the field, and his eyes immediately shifted from Gehrig at the bat to this nearing danger. Yes, they had black puttees. They were certainly the same two policemen who had been chasing him earlier! They were now coming toward him, darting sharp glances right and left into the crowd, evidently still looking for him. When they were five or six rows away, Speedy could stand the suspense and impending discovery no longer. He sprang up and, still burdened with his tray, started running down the space in back of the last row of seats.

Almost immediately the two cops spotted the fleeing figure and ran after him. Speedy scurried

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along at random, hampered by the huge tray. He had covered ten yards or more when he became aware that a small figure with a big slouchy cap pulled down over his eyes was racing along in front of him. Big Cap looked back for an instant, disclosing a keen, ratty little face, the stub of a cold cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. Then the small man suddenly swerved to the left and disappeared into a box-like compartment. It was a telephone booth, Speedy discovered, and there was a whole row of them stretching out along that part of the Stadium.

On an impulse Speedy leaped into one of the booths. He slammed the door behind him. But he had reckoned without his tray. The booth was too narrow to contain both him and his impediment. The tray was caught outside. And it was too late now to rid himself of it. The two cops were standing just abaft the booth and were looking the other way into the grandstand, evidently believing Speedy had disappeared down there.

It was an exciting moment in the game and the whole crowd was on its feet yelling. Speedy wondered what had happened. It was just his luck to be caught in here just when the best part of the contest was going on! But his regrets promptly vanished and he bent an alert ear to the thin partition dividing him from the tough-looking little fellow in the next booth when he heard the latter talking over the 'phone and mentioning a familiar name.

"Carter is getting rid of old man Dillon today—" the man in the next booth was saying. Just then

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a wild cheer from the crowd prevented Speedy from hearing the next part of the conversation. He pressed his ear hard against the barrier and listened intently. The cheering died away. The little man was still talking.

"—it's a cinch," he was saying. "Carter shipped the old bird up to Connecticut and told him he'd get another fellow to drive the car. Of course that's the bunk. The car won't make its trip tomorrow and the old man loses the whole shebang. Then Carter steps in and cops if off—get me. Now what—"

Again the mob of fans burst into a wild roar. Ruth had crashed out a three bagger with two of his teammates on base, practically cinching the game for the Yankees. The cheering drowned out the hoarse voice of the man in the next compartment, strain as the aroused Speedy did to catch what he said. When it was again quiet, the conversation was almost over.

"—only got until six o'clock Saturday afternoon—day after tomorrow—to cop the franchise. If Carter don't come through by that time, the company's goin' to jump in and do business with the old man themselves."

With that the little man hung up. Speedy, deciding to risk arrest or anything to check up on this amazing matter immediately, stepped quickly out of the booth. So did the conversationalist from the next booth. The two policemen stepped simultaneously. Speedy thought they were about to seize him and prepared for the worst. But instead one

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of them clutched at the little man with the big cap just as the latter ducked with a swift movement and started to run. He completely eluded the policeman and, aided by the fact that the game had just been finished and the crowd was pouring out of their seats and cluttering up the place, plunged into the oncoming hordes and disappeared.

"Who was that fellow?" Speedy quickly asked the other policeman, who was still standing there.

"That's Al Murphy, of Callahan's gang. Wanted for a fur robbery down at the Atlantic Basin last night. A bad egg," snapped the cop and dashed into the crowd in the direction his fellow cop had taken.

Speedy sighed with relief and felt a little foolish. The policemen had not been chasing him at all. All the time they had been after Al Murphy. Probably they had had a tip he would be at the game, had gotten on his trail and followed him there. Doubtless he had arrived just ahead of Speedy and the cops had been hot after him ever since. Now that he thought of it, Speedy had noticed a little fellow with a cap ahead of him several times that hectic afternoon.

But then he came to with a start. He would have to get into action at once! As he had suspected, this fellow Carter was a crook. Linked up with the Callahan gang. Just as he had doped it out. The conversation in the next booth and the identification of Al Murphy as being one of the Callahans proved it. He must get back to the Dillons at once and warn Jane and Pop. Pop must make the trip

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in the car the next day at all costs. And he would confront this Mr. Carter and tell him what he thought of him. That is, provided the fellow was still around. He quickly divested himself of his vendor's cap, jacket and tray and deposited them in the nearest seat.

Hurrying as fast as the outbound army would allow him down the ramp to the exit gate of the Stadium, Speedy for the first time thought about the taxicab he had abandoned just outside. He wondered whether it was still there. Thank goodness he had had sense enough to lock the car and put the key in his pocket. Though, heavens knows, that didn't faze an experienced auto thief if he really wanted to make a haul. One thing in favor of the car being safe, it was just a dilapidated vehicle that few people would take the trouble to steal.

Reaching the exit, Speedy plunged sideways through the crowd and managed after fifteen minutes or more to make his way to the spot where he had left his taxi. To his joy it was still there. A stockily built man was walking around it inspecting it, but the car was intact. That was the important thing. Speedy leaped up into the seat and turned the key in the lock. He resolved to take no passengers but to hasten empty downtown to the Dillons'.

"Who's that? Swift?" came a sharp voice at his side.

Speedy looked around, to be confronted by the angry face of his boss, Jerry Moore.

"What do you mean, leaving this cab here and

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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—"

"{{uc|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.
{{nop}}

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"Where's your day's receipts?" asked Moore.

Speedy produced them. Advised by Danny, he had kept the fares in one pocket and his tips in the other. Moore grimly tallied fares and slips. They matched exactly. He grunted.

"All right, Swift. And good-bye. You're through. I was crazy to hire you. You pretty near ruined a good car and you went to the ball game instead of staying on the job. Lucky I went to the ball game too and spotted the car. You'll never get along in this business. Here's your day's pay." He counted out three dollars and handed them to Speedy.

Speedy's temper was aroused.

"O.K., with me," he said sharply. "I don't want to work for anybody who won't take my word for things. And I wouldn't risk my life and my passengers driving a tin can like the one you handed me today. Good-bye yourself."

Before the sputtering Moore could give forth an effective retort, verbal or physical, Speedy had left the place. He walked quickly the three blocks between the Only One garage and the Dillons'. He was delighted to find a light burning in the Dillon hall. He hastened up the Dillon steps, flung open the door and entered the hall.

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{{sc|When}} Jane Dillon parted from Steven Carter in front of her house, following their taxi ride downtown from the Biltmore, it was with her first vague feeling of uneasiness toward the Dillons' star boarder. Under ordinary circumstances she might have been a little flattered with the regard for her which this handsome, well-groomed stranger expressed. What girl of her age, with little experience with men, wouldn't be? But Carter had been too precipitous in his signs of affection for a girl of Jane's modesty and innocence. . Besides, there kept recurring to her the suspicious attitude which Speedy took toward the man.

Speedy, she admitted to herself, was seldom wrong in his judgment of people, though, to be sure, in this case it might be that jealousy was coloring his opinions. That must be it—jealousy. Surely so obviously well-bred a gentleman as Carter could have no dealings with the type of thug who had nearly ruined her grandfather.

And, she recalled, Carter had desisted in his attentions in the taxicab as soon as she mildly rebuked him. His parting from her had been almost formal in its politeness. She began to feel more kindly to him.

She entered the house. There was no use for the present to call Daisy Ryan on the telephone. Daisy

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was a salesgirl in a department store and did not get home until six o'clock or after. Jane busied herself about the empty house, straightening things up and finally sitting down and accomplishing a bit of sewing. Around six o'clock, she packed a small handbag with her night things. She telephoned Daisy and found her in. Of course, Daisy said, she would be delighted to have Jane with her for the night. She added an invitation to dinner. But Jane declined this, declaring over the phone that the Dillon ice-box contained a suitable repast for herself, edibles that would spoil overnight if they weren't consumed at once. The real reason for politely declining the invitation was that Jane knew the Ryans had too many mouths to feed, as it was, and too little money with which to buy the wherewithal to feed them.

Jane set herself out a modest fare on the kitchen table, brewed a pot of tea and sat down to eat alone. Pop generally had supper with her and a pang of lonesomeness clutched her heart at the sight of the empty chair on the other side of the table. Speedy, too, often kept them company at this evening meal. She wondered where he was now and where he had been all day. Even King Tut was outdoors somewhere. However, of a natural buoyant temperament, she soon cheered up.

Having cleared away the dinner things, she went into the living room and sat down on the divan with her sewing, intending to give the Ryans a chance to finish their dinner before joining them. It was at this point that Steven Carter let himself into the

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house. He looked in through the living-room door on his way down the hall.

"Just dropped in to get my things," he called cheerfully. "I'm spending the night uptown."

He reappeared a few minutes later with his suitcase and, entering the living room, set the bag down and took a chair opposite Jane.

"Miss Dillon," he said, "I want to apologize again for my action this afternoon. I was acad. Please forgive me and believe that I meant no harm."

"I've forgotten all about it," smiled Jane lightly but not quite truthfully. "There was nothing to forgive."

"I had hoped we would become very—er—good friends," Carter went on.

"I hope so," replied Jane. He looked so the figure of downcast contrition and apology that she was almost sorry for him.

It was this tête-à-tête that Speedy interrupted as he burst into the living room. He fairly glowered as he saw the pair together and seemingly on such good terms. Carter arose at once at the appearance of Speedy, quickly banishing an annoyed frown with a smile of artificial welcome.

"Where's Pop?" Speedy asked abruptly, ignoring the greetings of both Jane and Carter.

"Why, he went out of town this morning. He—" Jane started to explain.

"Did he make a run with the car today?" asked Speedy anxiously.

"Oh, yes. But the neighbors held a celebration for him and the excitement was too much. He

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fainted away. Mr. Carter was kind enough to bring a doctor. And the doctor ordered granddad away to Connecticut for a few days."

"Oh, is that so?" exclaimed Speedy, as though this only confirmed a suspicion. "Did you investigate this doctor friend of Mr. Carter's?"

Carter took a step toward Speedy and looked him in the eye.

"Dr. Mason is a reputable physician and a very good one," said Carter sharply. "Mr. Dillon is in very bad shape, especially after this morning, and Dr. Mason ordered him out of town to save him a breakdown and some very serious consequences."

"You don't mean to tell me that Pop Dillon went away and left nobody to drive his car for him, do you? After he's been holding onto this franchise for all these years?" demanded Speedy.

Jane, who was becoming vexed with Speedy's belligerent attitude, now cut in.

"Mr. Carter arranged for a very good man to drive the car tomorrow and every day until granddad comes back," she declared.

"Oh, Mr. Carter did, did he?" Speedy mocked. "Well, I—"

Carter advanced still further upon him and there was a menacing glint in his dark eyes. Speedy held his ground, clenching his fists and acting as if he would welcome an attack from the stranger.

"Look here, Swift," Carter asked. "Just what are you getting at anyway?"

"I'm not going to explain now," Speedy said. "I don't know all the details yet myself, but the thing

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is gradually clearing up. All I know is that there's dirty work going on and you, Mr. Carter, are in a scheme to cheat Pop Dillon out of his franchise."

Carter made a movement as if to start physical hostilities. His face grew tense and his eyes narrowed. But evidently he thought better of it, for he gave a short, unpleasant laugh, relaxed and asked, "And what would I want of this franchise? It isn't worth anything."

Jane, the peacemaker, stepped in. "Why, of course, Harold, your charges are ridiculous," she said. "We've both of us often heard granddad say the franchise isn't worth a hundred dollars. The only possibly valuable thing is the ground on which the car barn stands and that's so small that it's not much good for practical purposes."

"If you ask me, Miss Dillon," sneered Carter, encouraged by the support of Jane, "I believe, as I told you before, your friend, Mr. Swift, is jealous of me. That's the real motive for his absurd conduct."

Jane nodded in agreement. She really believed it.

She turned on Speedy. "I think Mr. Carter is right," she asserted. "And I'm ashamed of you for acting like this, after all Mr. Carter has done for us and for granddad."

Speedy gave a baffled sigh. He had expected opposition from Carter, of course, but he had not counted upon Jane lending support to the enemy. He wondered if this clever knave had actually fascinated Jane; if there was good cause for feeling

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jealous of this man. He marveled at the hold this fellow must have over the Dillons, to have persuaded the usually shrewd and stubborn Pop to leave town at the time of this crisis in the affairs of the Crosstown Railways. For an instant he had an impulse, since both Jane and Pop were apparently resolved to let Carter get away with his underhanded work, to abandon them to their fate.

But Speedy was a fighter. And he was deeply fond of Jane and Pop. He generously attributed their yielding to Carter as due to their lack of knowledge of the man's true character. Speedy threw back his shoulders and stuck out his chin. He would battle this thing out in spite of what he knew was a very clever enemy, battle it out all alone if necessary.

He attempted to take Jane by the arm, but she stepped away from him.

"Listen, Jane," he coaxed. "Mr. Carter can fool you, and maybe Pop, but I've got the goods on him and he's not going to get away with anything around here. Who's this fellow who's supposed to be running the car tomorrow?"

Carter replied, "He's a very competent man and he'll be here promptly in the morning."

"Is his name Callahan?" Speedy snapped significantly.

Carter started, paled a little. He recovered.

"No, that doesn't happen to be the name," Carter explained.

"But he works for Callahan—and you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said

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Carter impatiently, with an appealing glance at Jane to please stop this madman. "I'm not acquainted with anybody named Callahan."

"Oh, is that so?" nodded Speedy. "Well, you can tell your driver, Callahan or Al Murphy or whoever he is, that he needn't bother to report tomorrow. I'm going to run that car tomorrow and every day until Pop gets home. And I don't believe he'll be away very long at that."

Carter became visibly anxious for the first time since the argument started.

"I guess Miss Dillon will have something to say about that," he insisted. "She's in charge of the line while her grandfather's away. That's right, isn't it, Miss Dillon?"

Jane was frankly worried. Angry though she tried to be with Speedy for creating a scene, it gradually became impressed upon her that where there was so much smoke there must be fire. Speedy did not accuse people of things unless he had evidence. Usually very mild in temper, he did not become wrought up this way for nothing. However rattle-brained he was in some respects, he had always been on the level, a person you could trust. She had listened attentively to the conversation, watching Carter's face closely, and she had observed little things that made her wary of him. She began to think there was some truth in what Speedy was saying.

"Jane, you'll let me drive the car, won't you?" Speedy asked. "I lost my job on the taxi today. I'm out of work. I need something to do. And it's

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vitally important that I take charge of the car with Pop away. I can't take time to explain things now and I wouldn't anyway in front of this man. Put the thing on the basis that I'm an old friend and I'm out of a job and you're helping me out by giving me one driving the car."

"Is that the height of your ambition—driving a horse car?" Jane asked, sparring for time.

"My ambition is to drive this particular horse car," Speedy said vehemently.

"It's ridiculous," Carter interrupted. "This was all talked over with Mr. Dillon before he left and he agreed that a man furnished by ''me'' was to drive the car. Now—"

"All right," said Speedy brightly. "Call Pop on the 'phone and we'll both talk to him. I'll tell him what I've found out about you and he can decide what he wants to do."

Carter flushed. As Speedy knew, he would not welcome having Pop Dillon hear that trouble was brewing. The old man would be on the scene himself in a jiffy.

"Nevertheless, Mr. Carter," Jane declared firmly. "I believe I'll appoint Harold to drive the car. As he says, he's out of a job and granddad and I as old friends of his ought to help him. Besides, he's been on the car before and understands all about it. I'm sure you can explain to the driver you had coming that this emergency has happened and I hired Harold. He'll understand, I'm sure. And I'm very much obliged to you for the trouble you've taken."

Carter for an instant caught himself in the un-

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familiar attitude of staring, mouth agape, at a lady. He had confidently expected Jane to support him and dismiss Speedy's claim to run the car. This was an unlooked-for development. It meant a change in plans, another trip over to the Callahan clan. He thought rapidly. All right, if this chap Swift was looking for trouble, he'd get it plenty. No trip would be made with that car tomorrow, whether Swift was aboard or not!

Speedy sensed what was passing through Carter's mind. He knew it boded no good. The older man shrugged his trim shoulders and summoned a smile that was half a threat and half sarcasm to his face.

"Very well, I yield to Swift—at your wishes, Miss Dillon," he said. "I trust when the day is over tomorrow, Miss Dillon, that you will not have made a mistake in your decision—nor Swift in his. As I said once before, it's a tough neighborhood and accidents will happen."

"No ''accident'' will happen," retorted Speedy. "But if one does, I'll be prepared for it."

Carter bade them a polite good night. He had business to transact with Puggy Callahan.

When he had gone, Jane looked appealingly, helplessly, to Speedy and asked, "Oh, Harold, what is it all about? I'm so frightened, with granddad away and all."

Speedy patted her soft shoulder.

"Don't worry," he quieted her. "Everything's going to be all right, now that you've decided to trust it to me. Were you going out for the night?" Jane told him that she was visiting Daisy Ryan.

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"Good," said Speedy. "You have a good sleep and don't worry a bit. I'll walk down there with you."

He left her at the Ryans' door, after being told by Mrs. Ryan that Danny had 'phoned he was taking a party to Greenwich and wouldn't be home until late. Speedy had wanted to talk things over with Dan, a wise counsellor.

"One more thing before I leave," he told Jane. "What's Pop's address in Connecticut?" She gave it to him—Spring Lake Sanitarium.

"Oh, Harold, is it going to be dangerous tomorrow? Is something terrible going to happen? I feel it is!" she cried.

"No, no. Don't think about it a bit," he laughed.

The Ryans had gone back into the house after opening the door for her. Jane suddenly reached up, threw her arms around Harold's neck and kissed him! Before he could do anything about it, she had fled back into the house and slammed the door shut. He looked at the door, as if expecting it to open again. A wistful smile flitted across his sensitive young face. He put his fingers tentatively to the mouth that her sweet lips had just touched. He felt all warm inside. He was quite sure now that she loved and trusted him. It gave him the strength and confidence of a lion. Throwing out his chest, he stuck his hands in his pocket and walked quickly toward Broadway.

A brisk fifteen-minute journey brought him to his destination, the nearest telegraph office. He wrote a wire to Pop Dillon, at Spring Lake, Connecticut:

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{{letter|
{{sc|Come home at once. Important developments your franchise.{{float right|Harold.}}}}
}}

Having despatched the wire, he headed back toward De Lacey Street. It was Thursday night and he knew where to find the bulk of the man power of the neighborhood. For years they had used Pop Dillon's car as a club house in which to play poker and smoke and swap stories two or three nights a week. Thursday was always a big meeting night.

Sure enough, when he arrived in front of the Crosstown car barn, he saw a light burning within. He entered the barn, dark save for the beams shining from the old car. A long narrow table, made especially for the purpose by a De Lacey Street carpenter, one of the "club" members, stretched half the length of the car in the aisle. The seats on both sides were occupied by good solid citizens of New York of all ages from thirty-five up, huddled as tightly as they could be packed, all intent upon the game and clouding the atmosphere with the smoke from their pipes and cigars. Most of the occupants were elderly, and a beard seemed to be the most popular sign of membership. The low, confused murmur that always arises from a card game in which many people participate came to Speedy from the car interior.

As he mounted the step and walked into the car, Chris Walters with a triumphant shout and slapping of his neighbor's back won a well-played and difficult hand.

"You can't bluff me, Adam! You've got to ''have''

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them to win!" Chris cried triumphantly to the man who got slapped, Schultz, who kept the cigar store outside which an ancient wooden Indian, symbol of the Gay Nineties, still held forth his pack of cheroots.

"You're just lucky, Chris. Another raise and you would have thrown the cards down," bantered Gordon, the sandy-whiskered little Scotchman, proprietor of the stationery shop next door to the car barn.

"Stop the gab and deal, Sandy," cut in the bearded Rankin, patriarch of the party, a retired tugboat captain.

"Ante up, gentlemen. The kitty craves nourishment," warned Le Duc, the portly French Canadian to whose little jewelry store Fifth Avenue dowagers brought their expensive watches for repair because of the uncanny skill that still lingered in his gnarled fingers and still keen eyes.

Speedy, still unnoticed by the cronies, intent upon their game, looked around the table with satisfaction. Ten players were taking part in the evening's diversion. Six or more others, either seated or standing over the shoulders of the participants, were watching the proceedings with keen interest. All were solid citizens of the neighborhood, bent upon an evening's innocent diversion. All were comrades of long standing, bound together like a Scottish clan. And all were friends of Pop Dillon. They had called up Jane when Pop failed to appear that night, and had learned the reason for his absence. It was his first failure in years to sit in their game and there had been an impulse at first to call it off for the evening. But they knew that Pop would not ap-

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prove of this. So Chris Walters had secured the key to the car barn from Jane and the "club" had assembled as usual. But all felt that something vital was missing, and that something was the genial Pop.

They had watched sympathetically for years Pop's struggle to hold his property, which was apparently decreasing in value every month. They appreciated his reason for hanging on to it—the possible coming of a day when he would be offered a large sum of money to sell it to one of the electric traction companies. Speedy knew that they would bitterly resent any attempt to take it away from him by underhanded methods. He was confident they would join him in fighting the invaders.

He waited until Sandy Gordon had won the next hand. Then he stepped up beside Chris Walters at the head of the table. All of the venerable heads turned in his direction as they realized from his flushed and earnest appearance that he had something important to say to them. They knew Speedy. They liked him and on many occasions had lamented his inability to find himself and get along in the world.

"I guess you men know why Pop Dillon isn't here tonight," said Speedy. "He was beat up by a thug yesterday and a fake doctor sent him away to a sanitarium in Connecticut. Yes, a fake doctor! Never mind how I know that; you'll have to take my word for it for the time being. But Pop won't be away long. I've sent him a wire to hurry back home as quick as he can and he'll be here tomorrow,

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or the next day at the latest. But, meantime, we, as his friends, will probably have to act, and act quick and hard, to protect him.

"I've found out that certain crooked interests are going to try and cheat him out of his franchise. They planned to keep the car from running tomorrow, which, as you know, means the forfeiting of Pop's franchise. To make sure the car goes out, I got Jane Dillon's permission to take charge of it myself. But I don't believe I'm going to be able to run it without a fight. I have a hunch this same gang of thugs will be down here tomorrow in full force to try and take me off the car. I can't say for sure and I'm not in the position yet to appeal to the police. Besides, I believe we people of De Lacey Street can settle this thing in our own way.

"We all like Pop and we'll fight for him. You're a ted-blooded bunch of men and you've still got plenty of pep in you to offer a battle. If that gang of gunmen comes down here tomorrow and attacks me and the car, will you help me? That's all I want to know!"

Immediately the smoky air was full of exclamations of surprise and defiance and a multitude of questions, Speedy tried to answer them as best he could. They did not doubt for a moment what he told them. The previous assault of Pop and the air of menace that had seemed to hang over the street during the past few days confirmed his words. Many of them had seen Carter and had disliked him on sight.

"Sure we'll fight!" roared the husky Walters.

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"My old ball bat can still crack a few heads for Pop. And you can count on my two sons too. Fighting's their middle names."

"Bring on your thugs. We'll give them warm welcome," declared husky Barnett, the butcher, who weighed two hundred pounds and had once been a prominent amateur boxer.

"It vill be a pleasure," smiled Schultz, Turnverein trained.

The others all chimed in with similar promises and threats of useful violence.

"All right," said the excited and pleased Speedy. "I knew I could count on you. One thing more—we've got to have a leader and, since I'll probably be the center of attack and see the thugs first, I'm going to be immodest and appoint myself. Will you agree, in the absence of Pop, to follow me?"

"{{uc|Yes}}!" came the resounding chorus.

"Fine!" cried Speedy. He thought a second. "I'll have to give you a signal when I know for sure that there's going to be trouble," he went on. "I'll tell you what: I remember my grandfather telling me once how in Civil War days one fellow used to warn another secretly that a fracas was coming by saying, 'It looks like rain.' When he said that, all of his friends would know to be on their guard. So, tomorrow when I drive the car and see that I'm going to be in for it, I'll lean out and say, 'It looks like rain,' as I pass you fellows on the street. Then, when the attack is on and I need you men to come a-running and get busy, I'll yell, 'It looks like rain!' as loud as I can. Is it a go?"
{{nop}}

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The De Lacey Street Car Barn "Club" approved in a body and a roar.

"Good!" said Speedy. "Put on your fighting togs tomorrow and bring along any weapons, except guns, that may be handy. Anything just short of murder will be fair in handling these tough customers we'll have against us."

The card game was forgotten. The old car was a-buzz with discussion of Speedy's message and a hot reception for the attackers on the morrow.

About ten o'clock Adam Schultz, who could always be counted upon to be hungry at all hours, suggested, "Vat about the pot luck, boys? Ve'll need to eat so ve'll have our strength for tomorrow."

It was the custom of the poker players and their onlookers to bring a "pot luck" meal to their weekly meetings. Every man supplied a portion, each to his taste and that of his cronies. Packages were immediately produced from their positions at the feet of those present. Walters contributed ginger ale and other soft drinks from his delicatessen. Schultz had cigars, cigarettes and pipe tobacco. Le Duc offered charlotte russes. Barnett drew exclamations of pleasure as he handed out big roast beef sandwiches. There were more sandwiches from other members, pickles, sauerkraut, hot dogs and other delicacies. There was even coffee from two large thermos bottles.

The feast was spread out on the table. The occupants of the car went to it with a will. Though he was not a contributor, eats were thrust upon

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Speedy in more profusion than he could handle them. laws were worked overtime. The poker players were hardy eaters and were very frank about the fact.

When it came time for the meeting to break up, Speedy repeated his battle instructions for the morrow. The car was carefully swept with the two old brooms and the dust pan located in the corner of the barn. The De Lacey Streeters trooped out of their rendezvous, gorged with food and fiery with threats for Carter's cohorts. Chris Walters turned over the key to the barn to Speedy.

"See you tomorrow, bright and early," Speedy sang out as he left them.

"We'll be there!" came with a whoop from a dozen or more throats. "We'll be watching from our stores and houses. And several of us will make it a point to pass you when you drive the car, so we can get the signal."

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{{sc|Much}} as Speedy would have liked to, he did not stop in and speak to Jane the next morning on his way to the car barn. He knew that if he did so, she would probably insist upon accompanying him on his trips with the car. He did not want to embroil her in the impending mêlée. She was better off, physically and mentally, at home, out of danger. He would take a chance of her misunderstanding him. Even after the sign she had given him of her affection for him at parting the night before, it was better that she did not learn of the probable battle today. It would only worry her.

As he walked down De Lacey Street in the early morning sunshine of a perfect, almost summery day, though it was the first week in October, his staunch henchmen greeted him from their store entrances and front porches.

"No signs of rain yet, eh, Speedy?" called out Chris Walters. "Well, just give us the word when you want us."

"All ready for the big fight," Adam Schultz, dusting off the wooden Indian in front of his cigar store, assured him. "Vouldn't it be a shame if nodding happened?"

Speedy grinned. "Don't worry, Adam," he grimly predicted. "There'll be lots doing later."

Others contented themselves with a reassuring

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wave of the hand that they were ready to come a-running when the tocsin sounded.

Speedy unlocked the door of the car barn and walked into the stall of Old Nellie, Pop Dillon's faithful gray mare. He gave the nag a generous morning meal, busying himself while she was eating by searching for a certain utensil of his own which he felt might come in handy. Over in the corner in the compartment where Pop kept his bales of straw he found it. A good, substantial baseball bat which had once belonged to his father, the elder Speedy Swift. Speedy had left it at the car barn following a scrub game of baseball in the middle of De Lacey Street some months previous. He now took the bat and, after hefting it a few times with satisfaction, carefully parked it beside the control box on the front platform of the car.

Then going back to Nellie, finished with her repast, he drew the harness down from its peg and decorated the horse with it. He led her to the shafts of the car and hitched her up. Stepping into his place on the driver's platform, he threw out his chest, gritted his teeth and, taking the lines in his hand, chirped, "Gid-dap, Nellie, old girl. You and I are probably going to see a lot of fun before we get through with this day's work." The old mare tossed her head, as if she understood what he was saying. Pop often maintained that Nellie had more sense than most humans.

The total rolling stock of the Crosstown Railways emerged placidly from its terminal and set out upon the day's work. De Lacey Street basked in the sun,

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peaceful and normal. Barnett, the butcher, was setting out his green goods in front of the store. Le Duc, the jeweler, had come to the door of his shop so that in the sunlight he could better squint through his magnifying glass at the machinery of a brokendown watch. He saw Speedy coming and waving cheerfully. Housewives, market baskets on their arms, were making their morning purchases. One or two were sweeping the sidewalk in front of their houses. They glanced apprehensively at Speedy. From various hints some had sensed that trouble was brewing and that their men folks would be involved. Small boys romped on their way to school.

For the first twenty minutes of Speedy's day's work it seemed that this almost pastoral scene would continue. He made the complete trip one way to the end of the line without untoward incident of any kind. He had no passengers, but this he expected. The women of the neighborhood had been warned to stay off the car and the men folks, intending to take the attackers by surprise if they came, were going about their business without apparently paying any attention to Speedy.

One fat old woman, a stranger to De Lacey Street, signaled to the car to stop as Speedy turned around to make his trip back to the barn. He waved to her as he shook his head negatively. She motioned frantically, shouted and became very red of face with the exertion of endeavoring to persuade this evidently crazy young man to stop. Speedy went blithely on.

He figured that the trouble would break out on

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this first trip or not at all. And he did not want any women involved, strangers or otherwise. They would cramp the fighting style of his henchmen and him. If he made a complete trip to the end of the line and return, thus fulfilling the requirements of the franchise, then he could conclude that Carter and his friends had abandoned their efforts for the day. Then he would start taking passengers.

A block farther on from the spot he had left his gesticulating would-be customer, the first ripple disturbed the smooth surface of the De Lacey Street calm.

A short, stocky man stepped out from the curb and held up his stubby hand to stop the car. He was a hard-looking character. His shirt had no tie or collar attached. A dirty cap was pulled down over his ears. He was unshaven and his hip pocket bulged suspiciously. Speedy looked at him sharply, took a deep breath and made sure his ball bat was leaning comfortably in its corner. He let Nellie plod right on.

Though the fellow had now stepped almost in the path of the car in his effort to stop it and was waving his hand, Speedy pretended not to see him and even slapped the lines on Nellie's back to hurry her along. As he did so, two men evidently of the same ilk as the first—tougher if possible and certainly taller—stepped out from the shadows of the brick building on the corner and joined the short roughneck in the street.

As the car swung past them, Nellie now having been persuaded to break into a slow trot, they one

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after the other leaped easily aboard the car at the back platform. Speedy turned around warily to watch them. He did not want to be attacked from the rear before he had a chance to give the signal. Nor did he wish to summon his cohorts at once and set them upon this sinister though not yet belligerent trio. Rough-looking strangers from the Bowery district occasionally appeared on De Lacey Street and rode on Pop's car for perfectly legitimate reasons. There was a chance these men were not members of Carter's gang. Even if they were, Speedy chose to wait a while and see what would develop, possibly discover more about the strength and numbers of the opposition before sounding the alarm.

Two of the men, the tall ones, took seats about in the middle of the car. They watched from behind beetled brows as the first and shorter man walked up to Speedy and snarled unpleasantly, "Waddeya mean, drivin' past me, huh?"

Speedy turned half around, looked steadily at the fellow and said, "Why, did you want to ride?"

"You know I did, bo. I ain't used to bein' high hatted, I ain't. Fact is, kid, I don't like you at all."

Speedy squared around to him still more. He felt that the crucial moment was coming. He had feared he would be nervous and perhaps frightened, but to his secret relief he was quite calm.

"And I don't like you much either," he retorted.

"Oh, is zat so!" The short man turned to his two pals, who had joined him now, having left their seats and slipped up to the front of the car with the

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cat-like movement of the born thug, and were facing Speedy.

"Waddeya know about that, boys; the kid don't like us," growled the stocky man.

"In that case maybe we better part company, hey?" snarled one of the tall men with a sneering smile.

Speedy had been sizing up all three men, trying to recall if he recognized any of them as having been in Puggy Callahan's "club" the night of his visit. He thought he recognized two of them. The short man, he decided, was Puggy himself and the tall man who had just spoken was the one who had opened the door for Danny and him and had then led them to their intended destruction.

At that moment they were in front of Chris Walter's delicatessen store. Chris himself was standing beside the track, apparently waiting for the car to pass so that he could cross the street. He was within a few feet of Speedy as the front platform of the vehicle came even with the burly chest of the merchant.

"Good morning, Mr. Walters," said Speedy pleasantly, leaning out of the car. "Looks like rain." With an almost imperceptible hitching of his shoulder toward the three tough customers standing beside him.

"It does, at that," replied Walters.

Glancing back a second later, Speedy noted with satisfaction that his lieutenant had turned back to the curb and was undoubtedly going to warn De Lacey Street to stand by for trouble.
{{nop}}

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"What do you mean, 'Looks like rain'?" sneered Puggy Callahan at Speedy's elbow. "It's clear as a bell."

"Can't tell about this uncertain October weather," explained Speedy.

There was an ominous silence.

A minute later they passed Barnett's butcher shop. The butcher, apron and straw wrist guards and all, was out in front supervising the loading of his delivery wagon by one of his stalwart sons. The elder Barnett looked over questioningly.

"Looks like rain, Mr. Barnett," called Speedy. "Be here any minute now."

"You talk like a sap," growled Callahan.

Again silence, the air dark with danger, and Nellie plodding on.

Puggy now spoke again, renewing a former threat. "I don't like you," jeered Puggy. "I don't like the way you talk, even about the weather. And you don't like me, so I'll tell you what you do, see? You get off this car and run and sell your papers. Fast! Get me?"

"Oh, no," protested Speedy. "I'm going to stay right here. But I'm going to give you fellows one chance. Beat it away quick and nothing will happen. Stick around and you're going to get the beating of your lives!"

This threat was greeted by exclamations of surprise from all three men for his audacity, then with loud guffaws at the absurdity of it. While they were laughing, Speedy took the opportunity to glance around and survey the landscape. He gave

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a sudden start of alarm! Eight or ten ruffians were congregated on the corner which he was now approaching. Across the street, in the shadows of the alley leading alongside Barnett's meat shop, he caught a glimpse of as many more.

That was it then! The next corner had been selected as the spot where the Battle of De Lacey Street would be waged! Carter had evidently despatched Puggy and his two lieutenants to attempt the intimidating and ousting of Speedy without a fight. That failing, his strategy called for the entire strength of the Callahan clan to fall upon the obstinate youth at the next corner.

The three Callahan stalwarts now stepped toward Speedy in unison.

"Come on, kid—git off or we throw you off, Fight us and we'll bust you wide open! Last chance. Whaddeya say!"

Speedy's lightning-like reply was to yell "Whoa!" to Nellie, lean far over the dashboard of the car and raise his right hand high over his head and shout, "Looks like rain! Looks like rain!"

The three Callahanites started toward him.

"Come on, Walters, Schultz, Barnett and the rest of you! Come on!" shrieked Speedy. Humanity started to pour from the sidewalks—opposing armies. The battle was on!

Speedy ducked agilely as a fist swung through the air, missing his head by inches. He ducked again as Puggy Callahan flung himself at his waist like a football player attempting a desperate flying tackle. Puggy's closely shaven head hit the hard

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metal of the car dashboard with a resounding whack and the gang leader was for an instant ''hors de combat.'' He retained his senses enough, however, to yell at the third thug, who was reaching angrily in his hip pocket for the thing that bulged there, "No shootin', Muggs! Remember Carter's orders!"

Speedy heard and inwardly rejoiced at this. At rough-and-tumble fighting, minus firearms, he was confident his followers were an even match for their foes.

But he had little time to think about anything during the next few minutes except to prevent himself from being annihilated. The first thug drew a blackjack and made desperate efforts to force Speedy to remain still long enough to have his skull cracked. Speedy's answer was to leap into a corner and produce his ball bat. His first furious swipe with this caught the blackjack-wielder a glancing blow on the jaw, enough to send him tumbling to the floor. But Puggy was now on his feet again. And the would-be gunman, having again concealed his cannon in obedience to orders, was flailing wildly about with fists adorned with an evil-looking pair of brass knuckles.

Meantime the region around the car was a mass of fighting, kicking, yelling mêlée. The halting of the car had brought Callahan's men on the run from both sides of the street. And Speedy's signal had been similarly effective. From shops and houses, from alleyways and byways, the males of De Lacey Street came tearing, eager for the fray. Many of them seemed to leap up out of the ground.
{{nop}}

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The crooks were taken by surprise. Callahan's diplomacy failing, they had planned to rush Speedy off the car by sheer force of superior numbers, kidnap him, hold him for a few days until Carter could buy in the forfeited franchise and then release him. Now they had a battle on their hands! Not that they regretted it particularly. Their lives consisted of fighting. They went to it with a will.

Staving his three particular enemies off with his swinging bat, Speedy had a chance to look around and size up the pandemonium crashing around him.

"Atta boy, Adam!" he yelled as he saw Schultz, grotesquely arrayed in a football suit, head guard and all, belonging to his oldest boy, bring the flat side of a butcher's cleaver down on the head of an ambitious Callahanite and fell him to the ground.

"Look out, Jacques!" he screamed a warning as a fat crook leaped at the back of Le Duc, the jeweler. The Frenchman, heeding, ducked quickly and the high jumper sprawled on his face on the hard asphalt of De Lacey Street.

But now the business at hand was becoming hotter. Thugs by the score were crowding up onto the car platform. Speedy was beset on all sides. In a minute he would be completely hemmed in by this tightening circle of fists, clubs and blackjacks. He no longer had room in which to swing his bat. Deeming discretion the better part of valor, he suddenly turned and, catching the overhanging roof of the car with one hand, swung himself out and upward. Still clutching the bat, he secured a grip on the roof with the other hand also and fairly

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hurled himself up on it. Several hands grabbed for his swinging legs and he had to kick them loose before he found himself, panting but free, atop the car.

Speedy scrambled at once to his feet, in time to smack down with the bat two enterprising heads of Callahanites attempting to follow his aerial example. But his worries were by no means over. Behind him, at the other end of the car, the enemy was trying to swarm up after him. He leaped into the breach and swung lustily at them. With the strategic advantage of a higher position in his favor, he finally forced them down, skipping around like a ballet dancer to elude the snatching hands making desperate attempts to seize his ankles.

For a second he thought all was lost as a big ham of a hand clasped a death-like grip on his left leg and jerked him down to his knees. Try as he would, he could not shake himself free. Another second and his imprisoned leg was over the side of the car and steadily being drawn down. In another minute he would be yanked clear and plunged down into the street in the midst of the embattled mob. In his agony of effort, he looked down and saw the red, straining face of Puggy Callahan. Holding his baseball bat like a billiard cue, Speedy plunged it into the stub nose of the Irishman with all his force. With a roar of pain, Callahan fell back. His locked fingers slipped from Speedy's leg. The lad was free. He quickly scurried back to the car top and scrambled to his feet.

Still the foe kept mounting up toward him. But

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Speedy, more wary now, stood back from them as far as he could and cracked skulls from a distance, though just as effectively.

From his eminence he had a chance to view the battle as a panorama and hurl down commands.

"Around the other side of the car, Barnett!" he shouted. "Four or five of you go with him. Quick!" he yelled, as he saw Schultz and his contingent about to be overwhelmed by greater numbers.

"Grab that blackjack, George!" he motioned to young George Feeley, frantically indicating a wicked little black weapon that had fallen from the hands of a vanquished Callahanite.

And now the De Lacey Street stalwarts were slowly but surely gaining the upper hand. The roughnecks had all been driven from the car. A space ten or more feet in diameter had been cleared between the car and the backs of Speedy's men, who were doggedly driving the invaders back and back.

A taxicab was parked at the curb down the street a half block from the fracas. The curtains were drawn. Speedy could not see the occupant, but he guessed that it was Steven Carter. In the next minute he was sure of it.

For Johnny Burke, the De Lacey Street cop, strangely absent from the scene all during the fight so far, came running up blowing his police whistle lustily. The curtain of the taxi was snapped up about halfway. An arm came out of it and waved in half circles for several seconds. Puggy Callahan started shouting commands and waving his hand also. And as suddenly as they had appeared, the

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men from the wharves turned and ran from the scene of their defeat. With a roar of its motor the taxi started after them. Speedy saw it stop with a jerk near Callahan. The door opened and Puggy jumped in. Then the cab leaped out again and careened madly down De Lacey Street. Carter and his lieutenant were fleeing the scene.

When three other policemen came running to join Burke, the fight was over. The attacking army had vanished, except for five or six of its members too badly wounded to rise from the street and follow. These were brought to their feet none too gently by the cops and taken into custody. Speedy's followers had no serious casualties, he quickly determined as he jumped down off his lofty perch on the car top and hastily inspected them as they stood in a victorious circle around the car. Several were nursing black eyes and other bruises. Barnett, the butcher, had his clothes nearly torn off him. Le Duc's face was bleeding from gashes made by brass knuckles, but the cuts were superficial. All were sweaty and grimy, but cheerful and quite proud of themselves.

Speedy shook hands with them enthusiastically and thanked them. No trouble at all; a pleasure rather, they informed him, and offered to fight again tomorrow if necessary.

"I don't believe they'll be back," Speedy declared. "They're not through yet, though. They'll think up something new."

Then he was taken in tow by Johnny Burke, who demanded an account of the brawl, its causes, progress and results, so that he could enter them in his

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little book. He wanted to know if Speedy desired to make charges against the Callahanites, now looking very weary and woebegone, left behind on the street by their fellows.

"No," said Speedy. "These fellows were only obeying orders. It's Callahan and particularly the master mind behind this thing that you want to get. And I haven't got enough direct evidence on him—yet—to make a charge stick, even if you entered it."

Meantime, having swapped their battle experiences in excited talk together, the De Lacey Streeters were slowly dispersing to their homes and shops to resume their workaday lives. Some of their women folks had circulated out into the street, anxious to know the fate of husband or son or both. They had watched the fight fearfully from windows and doors, where it looked even more vicious than it was. Most of the men had kept the impending rumpus a secret from the women, fearing that to tell them in advance would mean commands to keep out of the trouble, especially with that wild Swift boy enticing them to the fray. Now the women were busily examining the condition of their respective warriors and concealing their relief that things had turned out so well by scolding the triumphant males for minor catastrophes such as black eyes and ripped clothing.

Speedy watched the scene from the front platform of the car with a sympathetic grin. He knew these De Lacey Street women. Hard-working, sharptongued Trojan wives and mothers, but with hearts of gold when you needed them. But evidently none

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of them thought Speedy needed them now, for they were ignoring him except occasionally to cast dark looks at him, as if he alone were responsible for the disreputable appearance of their men and the risks they had just been through.

"We'll meet at the car tonight and talk it over!" Chris Walters, now in the custody of his wife, nearly as big as he, shouted back to Speedy.

"O.K.," replied Speedy.

"You'll do nothing of the kind—sitting in that stuffy car and figuring up more ways to break your neck," shrilled Mrs. Walters.

"Now, ma. Calm yourself," soothed Chris, patting her arm.

Speedy felt rather lonely at that moment. It must be rather nice to have somebody who loved you to come up protectively and inquire if you were hurt and even tongue-lash you a little for taking chances. He sighed. Then he braced himself and leaped down from the car and went up to inspect Nellie, who had stood patiently and quietly through the whole battle.

"How are you, old girl? All right?" asked Speedy, patting the animal on the nose and straightening up her head harness, which had been knocked slightly awry. Several times during the mêlée he had seen Nellie being pushed right and left by heaving bodies. Once she had snapped out of her lethargy long enough to lash out mildly at a Callahanite hurled against one of her hind legs and send him sliding on the paving with a well-planted hoof in his stomach.
{{nop}}

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Speedy inspected the rest of her harness and found it intact. He picked up the reins from the street and lashed them around the control crank on the car platform. He walked around the car and carefully inspected it. Everything seemed to be shipshape outside except for three or four broken windows and a gash in the right side of the vehicle by some sharp weapon. He walked into the car and looked around. Like the street outside, pieces of torn clothing and a few caps lay around and there were a few rips in the seats. But the car was thoroughly seaworthy.

Speedy walked to the front platform, took up the lines and said "Gid-dap" to Nellie.

As calmly as if her progress had not been interrupted by as fierce a street battle as lower New York had ever witnessed, Nellie took up her journey at the same slow, even pace as always.

On the next corner a slim feminine figure came out and hailed the car. Speedy gave out an exclamation of pleasure. It was Jane. King Tut was at her feet. He stopped and took both of Jane's hands as she tripped lightly aboard. The little dog followed her.

"Oh, Harold," she cried, "I just got here at the end. I went to Daisy Ryan's office with her, did some shopping and came back just in time to see the last of the fighting. Are you hurt? No? You're sure? Oh, those awful men. I can see them yet. I thought surely they would pull you down off the car and you would be killed. How did it happen? Do tell me all about it."

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So Speedy related the progress of events since leaving her the previous evening. Nellie stood tolerantly by, waiting for the go-ahead signal.

"Then you really think Mr. Carter would do such a thing, that he's trying to get granddad's property away from him?" she asked almost incredibly when he had finished.

"I'm sure of it," said Speedy, "though I admit I can't prove it definitely yet. Oh, I know he's the kind of a fellow who appeals to the girls. He's well dressed and handsome and smooth tongued. But he's a bad one and I'll show the world so before I get through."

"Oh," cried Jane, "I wish granddad was back here. He'll be so angry that we didn't let him know. And I'm beginning to agree with you that Dr. Mason might have had some other motive than granddad's condition for sending him away. You don't suppose they've done anything awful to him up there in Connecticut, do you?"

"I don't think so," Speedy replied. "Carter is too foxy to do anything criminal. I believe he only wanted to get your grandfather out of New York for a few days so that he could prevent the car from running. I have a hunch he was to get hold of this franchise this week or not at all. The conversation I heard in the telephone booth up at the Yankee Stadium confirmed that.

"You know, I've got an idea some company wants to buy this franchise and Carter's trying to grab it and then sell it to them at a big profit. If we lick him, maybe this other company will appear and do

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business with your grandfather. I tell you what I'll do—tomorrow after I make a trip or two with the car I'll go up and call on the Inter-City people. They're the biggest transit outfit in town. And they have lines so situated that Pop's tracks might be valuable to them if they took a notion to connect up. That's what I'll do—go and see them. And if they're not interested, I'll call on some of the smaller companies."

"Wouldn't it be wonderful if they really did want to buy and offered a big sum?" Jane speculated. "Grandfather could retire and we could buy a house and everything. None of us would have to worry any more."

"Don't fool yourself—I'll have to worry plenty," declared Speedy grimly. "As soon as things clear up here, I'm going to hunt a job. A real one, no fooling, and I'm going to work my head off at it. I never really had anything to work for before, but I have now—Jane."

"Meaning?" asked Jane mischievously, as if she didn't know already.

"Meaning—you," said Speedy, looking into her eyes.

In spite of herself, she blushed. Both were silent for a moment.

"I brought your lunch," said Jane, changing the intimate subject and pointing to the little suitcase she was carrying, the same one they had lost for a while in the sand at Coney Island.

"All right, let's go," laughed Speedy.

He urged Nellie on and the old car took up its

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interrupted trip to the other end of the line and the car barn. Inside the barn Speedy put Nellie's feed bag on her and saw that she was comfortably started on her noonday repast. Then he joined Jane in the car, where she had spread out a neat luncheon of sandwiches, a thermos bottle of coffee and cake made with her own skillful hands. There was even a nice juicy bone for King Tut.

"It's great sitting here eating with you alone," declared Speedy, eating heartily of the delicious fare.

"It is ''fun,"'' Jane admitted.

"Some day we'll be doing it right along," Speedy hinted.

"When granddad sells his franchise?"

"When I get that job!" emphasized Speedy.

They parted after the meal, Jane declaring that she had work to do around the house. Speedy made several uneventful trips with the car that afternoon, stopping only to buy a baseball extra from a shouting newsboy and learning that the Yankees had lost the second game of the World's Series. He met Jane at the Ryans that night for dinner, she having brought him an insistent invitation from Ma Ryan for both of them.

Speedy was forced to tell the story of the day's battle again and again to the army of Ryans congregated around the board, including Ma and Pa and children ranging from husky Danny to a baby of less than a year. Danny lamented the tough luck that had kept him from joining Speedy's forces.

"Say, what did you pull with the taxi yesterday

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that made Jerry Moore so mad?" Danny asked him curiously.

So Speedy had to tell his second epic of the evening, the account of his taxicab adventure with Babe Ruth and the cops at the Yankee Stadium.

"Well, you done wrong to desert the cab even if you did think you were going to be pinched," asserted Danny. "Moore tells us always to face the music rather than try and beat it from the cops. I don't blame him for firing you."

"Neither do I," said Speedy. "But it was sure a lucky break I did beat it into the Stadium. I would never have overheard that conversation over the telephone if I hadn't."

Speedy left them later to attend the meeting down in Pop's car. He was loath to desert Jane, but he felt that it would be ungracious of him if he did not join his battlers when they had done so much for him and Pop that day.

In the crowded car, the accustomed gathering being augmented by two score or more of the curious—so many that the car could not contain them all—the day's events were re-hashed again and again. Speedy was acclaimed the hero of the hour, though he modestly declined the honor and passed it on to Barnett, Walters and the others. The usual refreshments were produced and the assemblage did not break up until midnight.

If the boisterous celebrants had not still been talking excitedly and so intent upon their own business when they left the barn at that late hour, they might

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have noticed three or four dark shadows with singularly human outlines lurking between the barn and the shop next door. And if, having caught sight of the shadows, they had played a flashlight upon them, they might not have been so sure that De Lacey Street had seen the last of the Callahans.

King Tut, having left a bone, on which a few fragments of meat still remained, in the car, scampered playfully beside Harold up the dark street.

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{{sc|For}} the first time within his memory, Speedy did not sleep well that night. Always previously, job or no job, in trouble or out of it, he had been able to slip into blissful unconsciousness as soon as his head hit the pillow and remain thus until the battered alarm clock on the chair beside his iron bed shrilled the waking hour. But during the night following the Battle of De Lacey Street he lay wide awake, his brain packed with confused thoughts and his body tossing, for hours.

Speedy had a shrewd idea that he was not through with Carter and his gangster confederates, that, in fact, his troubles were but fairly under way. He could not believe that an unscrupulous fellow like Carter and born battlers like the Callahanites would be deterred by the temporary setback they had suffered that day. Carter evidently had a deep and determined purpose behind his vicarious efforts to prevent the Crosstown Railways' veteran rolling stock from making its daily journey.

It was Speedy's guess that no more attempts would be made to render the old horse car hors de combat by strong-arm tactics. In fact Johnny Burke, the policeman, had promised to "buzz the lieutenant to send down a couple of other strong lads, like meself, hungry for trouble so that the next times them bozos come snoopin' around we can give

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them a real welcome." Doubtless this intelligence had already been flashed to Carter's headquarters. No, Speedy was convinced, Carter's next move would be of a subtler character and hence more to be feared.

Speedy was not afraid. He would glory in another open battle. But he did not fancy possible strategy in the dark on the part of his shrewd antagonist. He had a vague feeling that somehow Jane was in danger, that, while he was away on the car, Carter's cohorts might do something to her. He wished Pop Dillon was back. He had had no answer to his wire to Pop and he was worried. If Pop were there to look after Jane, then Speedy could go out to do battle with a light heart.

Moreover, Pop's wise head would be useful. The old man was nobody's fool. He was a seasoned veteran of many a rough and tumble battle. What was detaining him up there in Connecticut? Had something sinister happened to him at the hands of Carter's agents? Speedy thought of sending Jane up to find out. No, that wouldn't do. She might be walking into a trap.

Amid these confused and troubled thoughts Speedy worked out one resolution. He would make at least one trip with the car as early as possible the next morning. Then he would travel uptown, see a responsible official of the Inter-City Railways and frankly ask them if they were interested in acquiring the Crosstown franchise. If by any chance they were, he would secure their offer and wire it to Pop Dillon with a strong demand that Pop either accept

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or decline by wire or return to town to investigate the matter in person. If the Inter-City people professed ignorance of any development lately in connection with the Crosstown franchise, Speedy would go to other traction companies.

That much of his future course having been settled, Speedy, tired of mind and sore of body, fell into a doze. He suddenly awoke about four o'clock in the morning to find himself on his knees in bed lustily pummeling away at his pillow with both fists! In his sleep he was again fighting Callahanites. It was the first time in his life he had ever been afflicted with a semblance of nightmare and he grinned foolishly to himself in the dark as he crawled back under the sheets and fell asleep again. In what seemed to be the next minute his alarm clock merrily rang out and, scarcely rested at all, he got out of bed and started to dress.

Jane had again spent the night with the Ryans, and Speedy had accepted an invitation there for breakfast. The ample family, together with Jane, were eating when he arrived.

"Well, if it ain't Battling Speedy, the Boy Bandit Eater," sang out Danny as loudly as he could manage with a mouth full of oatmeal. "We thought you were going to sleep all day after your roughhouse."

"Nothing doing," smiled Speedy. "There's plenty of work to be done yet, Danny."

He slid into the vacant chair beside Jane indicated by Ma Ryan. The younger Ryans gazed at him in awed admiration, having learned already of his

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exploits of the previous day from the neighbors.

Jane greeted him with a pleasant good morning. The sun was shining outside. Despite his lack of sleep, Speedy began to feel better. The world was going on about as usual, and maybe after all Carter ''had'' given up the fight.

"You haven't heard from Pop, have you?" Speedy asked Jane.

She shook her head with a troubled frown.

"Well, that's all right," soothed Speedy. "Probably he's resting comfortably and knows we can handle everything all right."

"Oh, do you think there will be more trouble?" asked Jane.

"No—no, they're licked," Speedy assured her with a confidence he himself did not feel.

"You always got to look out for them slicked-down fellers like this Carter," Ma Ryan opined. "I knew he was a bad one from the time he landed in the neighborhood. Though how he runs around with that Callahan gang beats me."

"Anybody can hire that bunch for a few bucks a head," offered Danny, wiping his full red lips with a napkin preparatory to dashing off to his job. "I remember when we were fighting the Royal Scarlet taxicab people, they hired the Callahan gang to run us off the streets. They're bad eggs."

Danny had hardly gone out of the front door when the bell rang. Daisy answered the summons. The breakfasters heard her conversing with a male voice and the door shut.

"Mr. Carter is out there in the hall and he wants

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to talk to Jane," Daisy announced when she returned to the kitchen. The table was instantly filled with interested, questioning faces, Jane hesitated, uncertainly.

"We'll both talk to him," said Speedy. Jane and he arose.

Carter was waiting nonchalantly, hands in pocket, in the narrow Ryan hall. A flicker of annoyance passed over his smooth face as he noticed that Speedy was with Jane. But he greeted them both with a cheerful "Good morning."

"I didn't think you'd have the nerve to show up around here again, after yesterday," Speedy began belligerently.

"I don't know what you mean," said Carter in feigned surprise.

"Oh, yes, you do. You hired the Callahans and their mugs to put me and the car out of business yesterday. But it didn't work. I saw you in a taxicab watching the fight—from a safe distance."

Carter was confused for an instant by this direct accusation. Then, knowing that Speedy could not positively prove anything, he recovered.

"I understand you had a little trouble yesterday, Swift," he went on smoothly. "It's evidently affected your head."

''"My'' head's all right," Speedy retorted grimly. "But some of your little playmates, the Callahans, probably have headaches this morning."

Carter ignored Speedy and turned to Jane.

"I really came here to see you, Miss Dillon," he said pleasantly. "I heard you were stopping here

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with the Ryans in the absence of your grandfather. Contrary to this man Swift's crazy accusations, I was downtown in Wall Street during the fracas yesterday. But I heard about it. It must have disturbed you very much. It's lucky your grandfather was away. If he had been mixed up in it, in his weakened condition, it might have affected him very badly. If this trouble continues after he comes home, it's liable to undo all the good his rest has been to him and have some very serious results. So Dr. Mason told me last night.

"Knowing that, and with your welfare and his in mind, I went last night to the man who once said he would pay $1,000 for the Crosstown franchise, an offer which I transmitted to your grandfather and which he very foolishly refused. I asked this man as a personal favor to me to renew the offer. I am very happy to say that I persuaded him to agree. Your grandfather left the car line in your charge during his absence and I am here this morning to offer you $1,000 for the franchise. I even have a preliminary agreement there that you can sign. Your grandfather can sign the final papers later. I ask you, for the sake of your grandfather's health—it may be even a matter of life and death—to seize this opportunity not only to preserve his peace of mind but to make a shrewd business deal in securing $1,000 for a property that everybody knows is worthless."

Jane looked troubled and uncertain. She was used to believing people. She had had no experience with unscrupulous, prevaricating males. And

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Carter had spoken so very convincingly, so politely.

"I don't want to alarm you, Miss Dillon," he went on in a slightly more urgent voice, "but I have heard rumors that there is liable to be more trouble in connection with the Crosstown Railways. The next time it will not be trouble that your friend Swift and his Coxey's Army will be able to settle. Nor will Mr. Burke and his stalwart bluecoats be of much assistance either."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" asked Speedy sharply.

"Neither—it's a prophecy," said Carter.

Speedy took a step toward the sneering Carter and thrust out his chin.

"Whatever it is," almost shouted Speedy, "Jane is not going to fall for any of your bullying or your dirty work or your phoney offers for the franchise. There's somebody bigger and straighter than you after this franchise and probably you're trying to double-cross them as well as us. I propose to find out who it is and, when I do, we may do business with them and we may not. But, whatever happens, we won't accept any of ''your'' offers. We wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot pole. Meantime, if there's trouble, we'll face it and lick it just as we did yesterday. So run along now back to your gunmen and report nothing doing."

"Where do you get that 'we' stuff?" sneered Carter. "I thought Miss Dillon was the boss and you were the stable boy. Isn't that right, Miss Dillon?"

Jane's spirit came to the fore suddenly with a rush.
{{nop}}

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"I agree with Speedy," she said. "You'd better go."

"And quick!" roared Speedy, clenching his fists and showing signs of letting one of them fly.

Carter looked from one to the other, his suavity falling away and a cloud of dark hostility covering his face. His black eyes narrowed. He backed away toward the door.

"All right, I'm going," he snapped. "But both of you will regret this to your dying days. If you think I'm through yet, you're very much mistaken. In fact, you're going to have a big surprise before you're an hour older!"

As the door shut behind him, Speedy and Jane looked at each other in some apprehension. Big as had been Speedy's words and brave as had been Jane's support of them, Carter's vehemently uttered threat had its effect. He was quite evidently a dangerous man who would stop at nothing. From now on, he had indicated, all scruples were off and it was open warfare.

"I wonder what he meant by a 'big surprise before you're an hour older'?" Jane asked anxiously.

"Probably just a big bluff," answered Speedy, but not with any strong conviction.

"He's a bad man," said Jane. "Oh, I wish I had never seen or talked to him. And what a fool I was to let him send grandfather away! Something must have happened to him. Oh, Speedy, what shall we do?"

She looked ready to cry. Speedy patted her shoulder.
{{nop}}

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"Don't worry," he reassured her. "If we don't hear from Pop today, you can hop on a train tomorrow and find out what's the matter. It's probably nothing. It's an out-of-the-way place and maybe he never got my wire. There's no telegraph station in the town. The messages are delivered by a boy on a bicycle, the lady in the telegraph place said when I sent the wire."

Speedy was more anxious than ever now to get down to the car barn and at his day's work. Both Jane and he were too excited to eat any more breakfast. They returned to the kitchen for a moment to thank Ma Ryan, leaving that worthy matron in a fine fret of curiosity because they would not take time to give a detailed report of the reason for Mr. Carter's early morning call and what had happened.

King Tut, Harold's shaggy little dog, had been waiting for him outside on the Ryan front porch. He looked up quizzically as Jane and Speedy hurried out and, ears and eyes alert as if he knew something important was in the wind, trotted after them as they walked rapidly down the street.

On the way down De Lacey Street, several of Speedy's fighting comrades of the previous day, now engaged in opening their places of business for the morning trade, greeted him.

"What's your hurry? Don't look like rain today, does it, Speedy?" bantered robust Barnett, the butcher.

But Speedy did not smile in his usual carefree way. He just shook his head noncommittally and strode on.
{{nop}}

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Everything looked as peaceful as usual at the little car barn when they could see it half a block away. But as they approached the big swinging doors, Speedy let out an exclamation of surprise. The padlock on the doors had been smashed! An intruder—or many of them—had visited the barn sometime between the exodus from the meeting the night before and dawn.

Without inspecting the broken lock closely, Speedy at once flung the doors open and hastened in, followed by Jane and King Tut. Here another bewildering surprise awaited them.

Pop Dillon's horse car was not there! It had disappeared utterly and mysteriously.

"Why—Harold—it's gone," gasped Jane, clutching at his arm.

Speedy's answer was to rush over to Nellie's stall and look in.

Nellie was gone too!

"Golly, they did do it—just as I feared," exclaimed Speedy. "That's what Carter meant by his 'big surprise within an hour.' They've stolen Nellie and the car. If they can keep them hidden for twenty-four hours, we're licked. I didn't think they had the nerve!"

King Tut, who always took a particular delight in barking a friendly good morning at Nellie's hoofs each day, trotted out of the stall with a crestfallen and disappointed air.

"Wha-at are we going to do now, Harold? Oh, I wish granddad were here," almost sobbed Jane.

"So do I. But he couldn't do anything," replied

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Speedy. He thought rapidly for a moment. Something would have to be done, and done quickly. He threw back his head and announced, "I'm going to get that car back if I have to tear this town apart. They haven't had time to dispose of it yet. They've hidden the car and Nellie somewhere. I'll find them. First I'll do a little detective business where I think it will do the most good."

Jane, with the true Dillon spunk, had recovered her composure.

"I'll go with you," she said bravely.

"No, Jane—please," pleaded Speedy. "There's liable to be some rough work. You can't possibly do any good and you might get hurt."

"But I want to help."

"You can. Run and tell Johnny Burke the car has been stolen. And tell Walters and Barnett and the rest. Meantime I'll go out on my own and see what I can find out."

They separated in front of the car barn. Speedy hurried up De Lacey Street, King Tut running at his heels. Three times he tried to send the little dog home. But it was no use. The animal, scenting excitement, was bound to go along. Finally Speedy, to avoid wasting more time, permitted his companionship.

Speedy's course took him straight crosstown toward the East River. As he neared the neighborhood in which was located the shack by the river which the Callahans made their headquarters, he slowed down and approached with caution. He knew that he was in critical personal danger if he

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were found by the gangsters alone and unprotected in this region of warehouses, lumber yards, dark shadows and even darker-charactered human beings. It was a district in which even policemen patrolled in pairs, when one could find a policeman.

At length he was within fifty yards of the Callahan rendezvous itself. The place looked peaceful and deserted in the early morning sunlight. He approached cautiously, sliding along very near the high fence surrounding the lumber yard that was the Callahan crew's next-door neighbor. Arrived at the end of the fence's protecting shadow, he gave a swift look around and then scurried across the open space and, bending low, edged along the side of the Callahan shack. His objective was the small window toward the rear of the weather-beaten building that, he judged, looked out from the private "conference room" noticed by Speedy on his one previous visit to the "club house."

Reaching this vantage point in safety, Speedy cautiously lifted his head and gazed in one corner of the window. At first he could see nothing. The glass of the window was smeared with dirt. But as he continued to look, he soon made out the figures of two men seated inside. They were sprawled out on chairs on either side of a small, bare table. One was a sinister-looking thug who had boarded the car with Callahan preliminary to the tussle of the previous day, and the other was Puggy Callahan himself.

The two were smoking black cigars and talking. But, strain his ears as he might, Speedy could not

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make out a word of their conversation through the closed window. It was exasperating. By the exultant look on their faces, he was sure they were discussing their coup in capturing the car. If he could catch only a few words of what they were saying, he knew he could learn something to his advantage. But he was doomed to disappointment.

Just as he was debating whether he should walk boldly in and accuse them of the theft or, allowing discretion to govern his movements, to dash away in search of a policeman, Puggy Callahan arose and walked out of the room. Guessing that Puggy was headed for the front door, Speedy dropped down flat upon his stomach in the shadows and waited. Sure enough, he soon heard the front door open and shut again and in a few seconds Puggy waddled past the open space between the shack and the lumber yard and disappeared up the street.

When he judged the thug captain was twenty yards or more away, Speedy slipped out from his concealment and, reaching the side walk, walked briskly along in the same direction pursued by Puggy. He could plainly see the stout figure of Callahan ahead of him.

Two blocks further along, Puggy turned at right angles and crossed the street, Speedy alertly in his wake. Callahan's course was now westward through a crosstown highway leading away from the river. In a square or two pursued and pursuer were in a region of tenements, pushcart peddlers, sidewalks swarming with people speaking a score of different languages and streets a jumble of vehicles

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and shouting children. It was a typical New York Ghetto thoroughfare. Speedy redoubled his vigil and his pace, afraid of losing his quarry in the midst of this teeming activity. Soon he was only a pace or two behind Callahan, and Speedy drew his cap—Pop Dillon's uniform cap, which the youth had borrowed when he took up his duties as motorman on the car—down further over his face. He was afraid of being recognized should Callahan suddenly turn and scrutinize him.

If Callahan should follow this course a half hour or more it would bring him back to De Lacey Street, and Speedy wondered if that was the thug leader's destination. Perhaps Puggy himself had not been present at the theft of the car and now wanted to make certain that his lieutenants had succeeded in their purpose. Speedy hoped this was the case, for, once the gangster neared the car barn, young Swift could dash ahead by a circuitous route, notify Johnny Burke and nab Callahan in the act of spying around the barn. Then he could be arrested and held for at least twenty-four hours on suspicion—time enough to pump him for information about the whereabouts of the car.

But Speedy hardly believed the shrewd gang leader would be foolish enough to adopt these tactics.

As if to confirm this belief, Callahan suddenly stopped in front of a tenement,—so suddenly that the following Speedy nearly crashed into him,—ascended three worn and refuse-littered stone steps and pulled a bell. Speedy loitered at the bottom of

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the step, leaning against the iron newel post that supported the rickety step railing. He awaited developments, which soon came.

A black-eyed, black-haired girl, about twenty, with rouged lips and cheeks and dressed in the flashy style of the East Side gangster's "girl," cautiously opened the door about halfway.

"Hello, Sadie," Speedy heard Callahan greet her and start to push his way in.

"Stick outside, Puggy," quickly said the girl in a raspy voice. "There's 'dicks' inside lookin' for Al on account of that fur job he pulled last night. Did you meet Joe yet?"

"That's what I come to ask you about. Did Joe get back?"

"No, he was supposed to meet you with the car at the corner of Powers and Third Ave., wasn't he?"

"Sure—I'm on my way to meet him now. I'm late though and I thought maybe he came on here."

"Did he get the horse car all right?"

"I dunno. That's what I want to find out. He didn't 'phone nor nothin'. Well, I'll be gettin' on. S'long, Sadie."

"S'long."

So quickly did Callahan take his departure that he was down the steps and on Speedy before the latter had a chance to slip away. Seizing his handkerchief, Speedy, with lightning strategy, made a bluff of shining the smeary brass ball atop the newel post against which he was leaning. He lowered his head until it was almost sunk into his

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shoulders and held his breath. Puggy stopped and shot a quick glance of suspicion at him. He seemed about to seize Speedy by the shoulders and swing him around to question him. Then, doubtless urged on by the necessity of haste if he were to meet Joe, Callahan muttered something about "You poor nut" and hurried on.

Speedy waited until he feared he might lose Puggy in the sidewalk crowds, then ventured to hasten after him. He had caught practically all of the conversation between the crook and the girl and he was very much encouraged. He felt now that he was on the right track. The mysterious "Joe" was evidently the man who had been in charge of abducting Nellie and the car. If luck only stayed with Speedy and he could manage to be present at the impending meeting between Puggy and Joe, he might even learn where the missing car had been hidden.

Two sharp little barks at his feet reminded Speedy that he was not unaccompanied. King Tut, his little dog, had managed to keep up the swift pace and at the same time avoid being run over by trucks at the street crossings or by just as dangerous humans on the crowded sidewalks. King Tut seemed to sense that something climactic was in the air and was sounding his battle cry preliminary to plunging into the second stage of the pursuit of Puggy Callahan.

A few blocks farther along and disaster almost overtook Speedy. Callahan had apparently scented that he was being followed. Several times he had

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looked menacingly around. On each occasion, as danger threatened, Speedy had been able to duck behind some convenient pedestrian's back. But now as Puggy looked around sharply, the sidewalk in the immediate vicinity of Speedy was bare. There was no hiding place. Puggy was staring at him. To stop short, Speedy knew, {{SIC|woud|would}} be fatal, and it would be equally incriminating to run. There was nothing to do but keep going, which would in a few seconds bring him face to face with the enemy. Callahan grimly awaited him, though it was obvious that the gunman did not recognize him completely and was not quite certain that Speedy had been following him.

At that moment Providence directed Speedy's lowered eyes to a fruit and refreshment stand jutting out from a tenement a few yards away. Speedy nonchalantly strode over to it. The vantage point in the show window was occupied by an assortment of choice cuts of watermelon, and a sign proclaimed that they were ten cents a slice. Speedy quickly plunked down a dime and picked up the succulent fruit. Holding on to it with both bands he sunk his teeth into its red middle and, eating as he went, proceeded on toward his awaiting foe. Speedy's face was as completely disguised by the watermelon as if he had been wearing a mask. Callahan, convinced that he did not know this strangely persistent young man and that he meant no harm, turned and plodded along toward his rendezvous with Joe.

But Speedy now knew that renewed caution would be necessary. Spying a push cart that was

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a laden with imitation Panama hats, Speedy quickly purchased one, shoving his cap into his pocket. He intentionally chose a hat that was oversize, with a huge flappy brim. Donning this and pulling it down over his eyes, he congratulated himself that Callahan would now believe that the other young man in the motorman's cap had departed.

The gangman now turned a corner and Speedy knew they were on busy Powers Street, with the Elevated Railway overhead and the street beside them littered with vehicles rumbling over its rough cobbles. Five minutes more and they reached the fateful corner of Powers and Third Ave. Their journey had taken them clear across town and it was well after noon.

There was for the moment no sign of Joe. Puggy looked eagerly around and then contented himself by leaning against a hydrant on the corner and lighting a cigarette to pass the time away. There was a cigar store on the corner and a convenient alleyway, littered with boxes and barrels, was located between it and the next shop, a butcher's emporium. Speedy, with King Tut at his heels, glided into the shadows of the alley and, almost breathlessly, crouched there.

Thus passed a half hour, impatiently regarded by both the watcher at the hydrant and the unseen vigilants in the alley.

And then, when it must have seemed to the irritated Callahan that the absent Joe had misunderstood the instructions or met with an accident, that worthy himself swiftly drove up in a bright new

-i

{{FreedImg
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—

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sedan of costly make and anchored at the curb twenty feet from the hydrant where his chief waited. Speedy's luck was still with him. The stop had been made almost directly opposite the alley. Puggy walked quickly down to Joe and greeted him. Speedy, using the passing crowds as a shield, streaked out of his hiding place, across the sidewalk and to the rear of Joe's car. There he pretended to passers-by and the policeman directing traffic in the middle of the street that he was only awaiting a break in the solid line of cars passing in front of him in order to cross over to the other side.

But if Speedy imagined he was going to overhear the ensuing dialogue between Puggy and Joe and thus find out something about the mysteriously missing car, he was doomed to disappointment. For Puggy, with scarcely a word, leaped into the sedan beside Joe and, with a snort and inexpert shifting of gears, they were off down Powers Street with such speed that the policeman at the intersection yelled at them, though he did not blow his whistle to stop them. Speedy was left standing there, baffled.

He almost groaned. All his sleuthing work had apparently been done for nothing. He stood uncertainly for a moment, wondering what his next move was to be. It was futile to think of hailing a taxi and attempting to follow the flying sedan. It was already many blocks away.

He was about to start back in the direction of De Lacey Street when a yellow taxicab, coming in a wild rush, almost ran over him. He leaped back

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onto the sidewalk. Emergency brakes were slammed on and the cab stopped with a shrieking of abused brakes. A policeman stood on the running board of the cab beside the driver. The bluecoat jumped off and approached Speedy.

"See anything of a blue Sturges sedan with a tough guy at the wheel?" snapped the cop.

Speedy was all attention in an instant.

"Sure, it stopped here and picked up a fellow. I don't know the driver, but the man he picked up was Puggy Callahan."

"How do you know Puggy, hey?" asked the cop sharply. "But forget that for the minute—which direction did the car take?"

"Straight ahead, going fast," returned Speedy.

A new voice cut in. The traffic cop had come over from the street, having observed the other officer and Speedy in conversation.

"What's the row, Mike?" asked the traffic policeman.

"Guy stole a Sturges sedan from down around the old Lincoln ferry slip. The owner came out just after the get-away. I was half block away, just too late to grab 'em red-handed. Jumped aboard this 'yellow' and came after them hell-bent. We lost sight of them back up the street a quarter of a mile and I asked this kid if he spotted them."

"I saw them myself," said the traffic policeman promptly. "Nearly gave 'em a ticket for speeding."

"O.K. I'm off!" cried the other cop, leaping aboard the running board of the taxi. He ordered

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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.

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{{sc|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!"
{{nop}}

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"Sure. But hang on tight, buddy. I can stand it if you can."

The instant before Speedy closed the taxi door, a little wire-haired mite leaped in past his legs. King Tut had enlisted for the "duration of the war" and he wasn't going to be left behind. Speedy drew the excited little animal onto the seat beside him. The framed warning card fastened to the back of the driver's seat proclaimed the charioteer's name as Michael Cassidy.

Cassidy shifted his gears into high and with a lurch the wild ride had begun.

The taxi rattled and banged up Third Avenue, protesting in every joint against the speed which its driver was accommodatingly trying to force out of it. But after a block of progress, the warning white gloved hand of a traffic cop forced a temporary halt in a sea of other vehicles. Speedy groaned.

"Gosh, you can lick these signals if you try," he urged the driver. "I used to drive a cab myself. You can beat them if you're smart."

"Well, I been drivin' 'em off and on for ten years, buddy," calmly answered Cassidy. "You can beat 'em if you don't mind a ticket. But think of me wife and kiddies. However—here we go again!"

With a screech of ancient and not-too-well-oiled machinery the cab rattled on its way. This time they covered three blocks before the ubiquitous custodian of the peace in a blue uniform waved the uptown sea of traffic to a halt. Speedy pulled out his watch. Five minutes had already passed and

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they had only covered four blocks. To make matters worse, Cassidy was now leaning out of the window and looking down toward his right front wheel, whence a thin wisp of steam was issuing.

"What's the matter?" called Speedy. "Is this old can going on the blink?"

"Cooling system ain't workin' too well," admitted Cassidy. "But she'll hold out all right. She always has."

The cop's whistle shrilled and the jerky journey was resumed. They reeled off six blocks without interruption and Speedy began to breathe more easily. But clouds of steam were now unmistakably billowing up from the radiator of the car, even covering the front of the windshield and obscuring the driver's view. Suddenly Cassidy whirled the car around the corner at right angles and on two wheels and, before Speedy could protest, they had darted into a garage. Speedy and Cassidy tumbled out of the car almost together.

"Hey, what's the idea?" accosted Speedy. "Haven't I got trouble enough without this happening?"

"Just a second, buddy," soothed Mike Cassidy. "I'll dump a little cold water in the radiator and she'll be O.K."

But at that instant both jumped six inches off the floor of the garage as a siren sounded just in front of them. They looked up to find a closed car, with engine running and a greasy, overalled mechanic at the wheel, looming the other side of the taxi. The word "Ambulance" was written across

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the front of this vehicle just over the driver's seat. Cassidy's taxi had cut off the exit for the ambulance just as it was about to make its way out of the garage.

"Get that tin lizzy out of the way there, taxi," shouted the garage man on the seat of the sick-wagon; "don't you know ambulances have the right of way?"

Cassidy obediently mounted his tin horse and slid it a few feet forward. Speedy, meantime, was looking rapidly from the taxi's steaming radiator to the spick and span ambulance. A wild hunch leaped into his head.

"Hey, where are you going with that stiff-cart?" he asked the ambulance driver eagerly.

"Delivering it up to the Chandler Hospital. Why?" the latter replied.

"That's on 72nd Street, isn't it?"

The driver nodded.

"Fine. I'll ride along with you. I'm in a hurry and this traveling junk pile I hired has busted down. Do you mind?"

"O.K. Hop aboard."

Speedy tossed Cassidy a quarter and was in the ambulance seat in a jiffy. But not any more quickly than King Tut.

With a snort the ambulance slid smoothly out of the garage and was on its way uptown.

"Say, slip it the gas, will you, mister. I'm in a hurry," pleaded Speedy.

"All right. They can't pinch me in this outfit," agreed the mechanic.
{{nop}}

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"Show some real speed and I'll pump the siren," cajoled Speedy.

In answer the driver pressed the gas, the ambulance swung into that {{hinc|break-neck}} gait characteristic of New York emergency wagons and Speedy, exulting inwardly, sounded the ear-splitting siren with all his might. Traffic parted in front of them. Policemen at the corners halted the crosstown stream of vehicles and motioned them on. Perhaps the policemen missed the usual white coated chauffeur at the wheel and the similarly clad interne swinging from the strap on the back step. But by the time the bluecoats had puzzled over their absence, the ambulance was already a full block away.

"Swing to the left at 59th. I want to go down to the river," suggested Speedy between gasps for breath. The siren-pumping was hard work and the speed almost choked him.

"All right, kid," replied the driver. "This is fine as long as it lasts. Haven't had a whirl like this since I was a despatch rider in France."

In another few minutes they had swung around the corner and were headed west. Emergency brakes were clamped on approaching cars. Horses were frantically reined in. Sidewalk pedestrians craned their necks at the wildly sounding siren and stared after it when it had passed. The ambulance continued to breeze along like the wind. Fifth Avenue was reached. Fifth Avenue was passed. Then Broadway. At last the river shining in the sun between the dock buildings appeared in the dis-

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tance. And finally Speedy's destination was attained. The dilapidated, half-tumbled-down Lincoln Ferry Slip was directly in front of them.

"Here's where I get out," Speedy informed the accommodating driver.

"How are you? All there?" inquired that individual good-naturedly. "If you're broken up, I'll take you right along up to the hospital."

But Speedy was already on the ground, King Tut at his feet.

"Thanks a million times," he said. "You saved my life. Good luck the rest of your trip."

"I'll take it easy and cool this baby off before I deliver her," said the driver. "We were supposed to have repaired her. I guess maybe I loosened her up again."

"I hope not," said Speedy, impatient to be off.

"Don't worry," said the driver and in a second had turned around and was proceeding back up the street at a decorous pace.

Speedy at once walked briskly up to the weather-beaten ferry house. The place had not been in active use for twenty years and it was a miracle it had not long since been torn down to make way for the huge modern piers that lined the river on both sides of it. Directly in front of Speedy was the open runway of the ferry slip, reaching from street to river, down which wagons used to rumble to the boats. This was still covered with a roof, though the roof was fast caving in from age. The covering was enough to cast the runway into dark shadows and Speedy saw that a close inspection would

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be necessary to determine whether or not the missing horse car was hidden in there. He wondered uneasily if the planking were secure. Suppose it should give way with him, plunging him into the river. He looked quickly around him. Not a person was in sight. This was both reassuring and disconcerting at the same time. He was glad none of the Callahanites were on guard. But there were also the unwelcome knowledge that there would be nobody to rescue him from a watery grave if anything happened. However, he was a good swimmer and this was no time to be backward.

He walked briskly into the shadows of the old ferry house and peered around. Then he cautiously made his way out through the almost complete blackness toward the river. He slid cautiously past several open spaces in the planking through which he could see the oily depths of the river menacingly below.

There was not a sign of the car anywhere.

Reaching the end of his inspection trip, he stood for a minute looking across the water, alive with fretty little tugs, barges and the customary river craft, to the opposite shore. He was baffled. With a sigh he turned slowly and started to walk back to the street. When he was once again in the sunlight, he again hesitated. What to do now? Evidently he had been too optimistic in interpreting the conversation of Joe and Puggy as a direct clew to the whereabouts of the precious car. Could it be that Puggy had, after all, recognized him and deliberately allowed him to listen to a fake steer? Surely

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that would be giving the thug credit for too much cleverness!

At that moment King Tut, who had been foraging about the neighborhood, sniffing as he foraged, came trotting up to Speedy. He tugged at his master's trousers. At first Speedy paid no attention to the animal, except to reach down absent-mindedly and pat his head. But now King Tut barked eagerly, agitatedly. Speedy looked down at him. The dog ran a few steps and stopped, as if urging the youth to follow. When Speedy attempted to call him back, King Tut, instead, ran over to a barn-like little shed next door to the ferry house and, standing in front of the half rotting door, barked more loudly than ever. Speedy had not noticed this shed before and now for a moment thought that Tut had probably located a stray cat in there, or something to eat. Nevertheless, he determined to investigate.

Reaching the shed, he saw that the entrance to it was barred by a half-tumbled-down door that had once slid by means of rollers on a metal runway at the top. What aroused his interest at once was the fact that new nails had apparently been driven in both sides of this door in order to hold it in place. Speedy at once seized the door and attempted to open it by brute force, of which he had plenty. It refused to budge. Abandoning this attempt for a few seconds, he hurried around the side of the shed and searched the ground for some mechanical means of forcing the door open. He was almost at once rewarded by nearly stumbling over a little pile of

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long abandoned, rusty iron pipes hidden in the tall grass.

Arming himself with one of these, he hurried back to the door. Ramming the pipe through an opening between the door's edge and the jamb, he flung himself against it several times. After nearly ten minutes of yeoman labor, the door started to give. Once loosened, it came with a rush. Speedy and King Tut had barely time to jump out from under as the door crashed down, a cloud of dust rising in its wake.

King Tut yelped and dashed into the shed. Speedy followed. Success! More success than he had even dared hope for! There stood Pop Dillon's horse car, seemingly intact.

But where was Nellie?

The horse car was of no use without its means of locomotion. King Tut had at once leaped into the car. Speedy now followed. And there inside the car he came upon Nellie herself, calmly looking around as if she were serenely confident rescue would come in good time. Speedy felt like leaping for joy. King Tut was sharing his enthusiasm, but for a different reason. The little dog had discovered what had all the time been urging him toward the shed. He had on the previous night parked his precious bone in the car and he wanted it. Now he had it and was {{SIC|poceeding|proceeding}} to enjoy to the full the succulent residue of meat left on it.

Speedy pulled out his watch. Ten minutes to four! Not a minute to be lost. He carefully led Nellie to the front of the car and down the steps.

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With frantic haste he hitched her up. The Callahans, for a wonder, had left her harness intact. Then Speedy mounted to the driver's platform and cautiously backed Nellie up until they were in the street and clear of the shed. He turned the car around so that it was facing west.

"Gid-dap," shouted Speedy, slapping Nellie over her broad back with the looped end of the lines.

"Come along, Nellie. Speed it up, old girl," he urged.

The horse broke into a trot.

"Faster, Nellie," Speedy pleaded. She obeyed. Nellie had once been a fire engine horse and she seemed to sniff a whiff of the old days. Soon she was running.

A block or two on his journey, people on the sidewalk began to stare at the strange sight of the decrepit old horse car, the speeding nag with the flapping straw hat over her ears and the excited youth who was urging her on. But they did not stare for long. New Yorkers are used to strange sights. "Probably an ad for a new movie," they told each other. "What won't those people think of next!"

"Whoa, Methuselah," came a heavy, authoritative voice as Speedy was about to cross a bisecting street. One of those aggravating traffic cops was again halting his speeding parade. Speedy groaned anew. Not even horse cars that simply must break all speed records were safe from traffic cops. He would have to find some way of circumventing this. He looked anxiously about him. Finally the

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cop let him pass amid the jeers, sarcastic cheers and wise cracks of the people on the corner.

A half block further along Providence apparently had planted Speedy's salvation.

A huge painted sign proclaimed "Cohen's Uniform Shop." The sidewalk outside this gaudy emporium seemed to be cluttered up with policemen, firemen and subway conductors. Speedy's roving eye caught sight of this strange array. He looked more closely. He yelled "Whoa!" to Nellie and stopped. To scurry across the street to the shop front was the work of only an instant. He grabbed up one of the dummy wax figures displaying the official uniform of a New York policeman and dashed back to the car. Mounting his platform and holding the blue-coated wax-mannikin with one hand, he seized the lines with the other and urged Nellie into a swifter run. He cast one swift glance backward. Enough to tell him that the proprietor of the store had spotted the theft and was now standing outside, {{hinc|bare-headed}}, shouting and wildly gesticulating. Speedy decided that he had better get out of there quickly. Nellie started madly to gallop.

At the next corner Speedy held his breath. Would his stratagem work? Paying no heed to the cop's lifted hand, he pointed frantically to the figure of the dummy policeman beside him on the platform, indicating that he was speeding along on a very special mission under police protection. The real policeman standing in the middle of the street looked uncertain and bewildered. He was only partially deceived. But Speedy was again fortunate. He had

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picked a dummy wearing the uniform of a police lieutenant, and the traffic cop did not dare risk offending a superior, phoney as the latter looked. He motioned Speedy on.

The horse car had not slackened its pace during those critical seconds. It was now careening madly from side to side with its unaccustomed speed. Elated by his luck, Speedy determined to follow the shortest route to De Lacey Street by roaring right down Broadway!

He swung to the right into the famous and very crowded thoroughfare. Nellie was stepping out like a thoroughbred. She seemed to be making almost as good time as the ambulance that had whirled Speedy up to the ferry slip.

The heavy traffic on New York's principal artery proved more of a blessing than a hindrance. Speedy worked an arm of the fake police lieutenant with one of his own hands in order to wave the trucks and automobiles out of the way. They obediently scattered at the sight of the stern-looking bluecoat. A few, very close by, recognized that the cop was a fraud, but smiled good-naturedly, believing again that Speedy was perpetrating an advertising stunt. Nellie, a veteran New York horse and used to navigating in a heavy sea of cars, wove in and out of the traffic at top speed.

Policemen at the corners, catching sight of the gold braid on the front of the strange approaching vehicle, which darted out suddenly from the shield of other cars and crossed the streets, gravely saluted the supposed lieutenant and urged the horse car on.

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Perceiving that they evidently expected something in return, Speedy brought the hand of his "police guard" to its head and returned the salutes!

It was too good to last, thought Speedy, though he was praying that he would get away with it for just twenty more minutes or so. He had crossed 42nd Street, the crossroads of the world, by this time and was still going strong.

Ten blocks further on, he made his almost fatal blunder. He was forced to pass very close to the policeman on the corner, something he had heretofore been able to avoid. But the cop, evidently as much deceived as had been his brother bluecoats farther uptown, snapped to a salute. With danger so near, almost within arm's length, Speedy clutched the "lieutenant's" wrist nervously to return the salute and did not bring the limp hand up quite far enough. The hand did not reach the peak of the cap. It only got as far as the nose! The "lieutenant's" thumb pressed against his nose.

The traffic cop, astonished, stared sharply. In a flash he recognized the hoax that had been put over on him. Speedy, meantime, had smitten Nellie sharply across the back. She broke into a more furious gallop than ever. It was now or never! A police whistle shrilled behind him. The fat cop was shouting. A block down Broadway another policeman on horseback straightened up to attention at the tocsin of alarm. His insulted fellow bluecoat was evidently pointing to the reeling horse car. The mounted cop urged his own horse forward and started in furious pursuit. The chase was on!
{{nop}}

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What followed was a nightmare. Policemen seemed to leap from every nook and corner. Whistles were blowing. Cops were shouting. Pedestrians on the sidewalk and in the middle of the street were yelling. Even motormen on the surface cars were clanging their bells. The world seemed to have suddenly rushed to the conclusion that this crazy horse car relic of old New York had fallen into the hands of a speed-mad lunatic, and probably a criminal to boot! Fortunately all this agitation was still in Speedy's wake.

He swung into a crosstown street, seeking quieter climes, attempting to shake off the pursuit. But when he returned to Broadway the hue and cry was apparently still raging. But now he was nearing his goal! He cut eastward toward De Lacey, the hoofs of the pursuing mounted cop's horse rattling in his rear, seemingly synchronized by some unseen cue artist with the flying feet of Nellie. Pop Dillon's horse car was creaking and groaning. Speedy wondered wildly if it would really hold together until he reached the Crosstown Railways. If only he could make that one trip and save the franchise, they could send him to jail if they wanted to! If he only had time to stop and catch his breath, he knew he could explain everything. But to do that would be fatal, would take precious minutes. Speed! Speed! "Come on, Nellie! Only a few blocks more!"

The Elevated Railway span of the Bowery loomed in the near distance. He reached that renowned highway and hurtled into it. He was nearing his

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own neighborhood now. If only he could shake off that eternal medley of cops' whistles and flying horses' hoofs. Thank goodness they had not enlisted a motorcycle cop in the chase. That would have been his finish.

Now at last he reached the intersection of De Lacey Street and the Bowery and turned left again.

Five minutes later he caught sight of the glistening parallel rails of the Crosstown Railways. A fleeting glimpse of a clock on a pole in front of a jewelry store told him that it was twenty-five minutes past four! Just in time to make one round trip, if Nellie and the car held together and the New York Police Department did not descend upon him en masse!

King Tut on the front platform was barking lustily, almost overcome with excitement. The valiant Nellie was summoning all her strength for the home stretch. With a shout of sheer pent-up emotion Speedy reached the far end of the Crosstown trolley line and attempted to steer the flying Nellie so that the wheels of the horse car would catch the rails.

And now the inmates of De Lacey Street, attracted by the clattering hoofs and the pandemonium in their wake, were pouring out of houses and shops into the streets! Speedy wildly waved them out of the way.

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{{sc|When}} Speedy had parted from Jane that morning to embark upon his seemingly futile search for the missing horse car, Jane bravely set out to obey his instructions and inform the whole neighborhood of the theft of the Crosstown Railways' rolling and live stock.

The good burghers were considerably agitated. They had confidently believed that their victory of the previous day had rid them of the Callahanites forever. But, beaten in a fair fight, the gangsters had chosen dark, underhanded methods in order to secure their revenge. And apparently they had succeeded.

Speedy's recruits assembled in little knots on the sidewalk to discuss the calamity. Women neglected their houses, their marketing and their babies to listen in and offer advice. Barnett, the butcher, and others started out energetically but aimlessly on private searches of their own. Johnny Burke called up headquarters and notified the forces of the law about the mysteriously missing horse car and made plain how vital it was to get it back.

Chris Walters voiced what was the general opinion of the course which Speedy Swift had taken in the matter.

"He's got his nerve with him, but he'll probably end up by getting his block knocked off, and the car

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will still be as far away as it is now," was Chris's blunt, picturesque way of putting it.

Dire were the threats made against the person of Steven Carter if he were ever again caught in the neighborhood.

Having consumed an hour or more in explaining to her grandfather's willing but baffled comrades what had happened, Jane started for home, wondering what her next move was to be. She was too upset to remain idle. She was worried about the car and now about Speedy. She must help him in some way. She remembered what Speedy's plans had been for the day, plans which had now been direly knocked into bits. He had intended to make a trip or two in the car and then visit the offices of the Inter-City Company to discover, if possible, why there was this sudden interest in putting the Crosstown Railways out of business.

Well, Jane thought, no trip could be made in the car. But possibly she could substitute for the absent Speedy and secure the desired information from the Inter-City people. At any rate it would give her something with which to occupy her time until she heard from Speedy. With Pop away and herself practically living at the Ryans, there was little to do around the Dillon house. She was too nervous to sit still. It was intolerable to think of sitting there, in suspense, alone.

She walked over to the subway, caught a downtown express and in fifteen minutes walked into the outer offices of the Inter-City Railways Company.

A very bored-looking freckle-faced boy was sit-

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ting behind the information desk in the reception room. He dropped the tabloid newspaper he was reading, shifted his gum for action and stared inquiringly at the visitor.

"I wish to see the president of this company," Jane said boldly, not knowing whom else to ask for.

"Won't ''I'' do?" asked the office boy impudently, Jane's ill-at-ease manner and plain clothes assured him that he was safe in having a little fun with her.

"Of course not," replied Jane patiently. "This is very serious. I ''have'' to see him at once."

"Well, he ain't in," said the boy. "And if he was, it would take an Act of Congress to get to him today."

"Then I'll wait," insisted the girl.

"Suit yourself," yawned the Mercury of information and lazily indicated the three or four chairs grouped around his desk.

Jane obediently sank into one of them. There she sat, shifting her position uneasily at intervals, for a solid hour. From time to time the office boy cast mischievous, jeering glances at her.

Finally the red-headed girl behind the telephone switchboard had mercy on her. The hello lady had been casting quizzical glances at her, between pluggings, and now could restrain her curiosity no longer.

"Were you waiting for somebody?" she called over to Jane.

"Yes, I wanted very much to speak to the president," replied Jane wearily. "It's very important."
{{nop}}

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"Gosh, you aim high," commented the red-head. "Didn't this fresh kid tell you that Mr. Donaldson wouldn't be in until after two o'clock?"

Jane shook her head negatively. The telephone girl directed a murderous glance at the office boy. Between those two there was a long-standing feud. The lady of the plugs felt that she must do something in defense of her sex against this young though antagonistic male.

"You might leave a note for Mr. Donaldson if you'd like," she suggested. "Probably he wouldn't see you even if you waited until he came in. This is a very busy day. All the officers are getting ready for the transit hearing at the City Hall tomorrow. I guess you read about it in the papers, if you read about such highbrow things."

Jane pricked up her ears.

"I ''would'' like to leave a message then," she agreed.

The telephone girl obligingly handed her a pad and pencil. Jane wrote:

{{letter|
President Donaldson:

I am the granddaughter of Mr. Dillon, owner of the Crosstown Railways. If you are interested in our franchise, please see me immediately at 362A De Lacey Street.

{{right|offset=2em|Jane Dillon}}
}}

She folded the note and, ignoring the outstretched hand of the office boy, handed it to the girl at the switchboard.
{{nop}}

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"I'll call Mr. Donaldson's secretary to come right out and get this, so the president will be sure to see it personally as soon as he comes in," said Tess O'Halley, the telephone lady, sympathetically.

Jane thanked her and walked out into the hall. Well, that was about all she could accomplish there. No use in waiting any longer. Nothing to do now but hurry back to De Lacey Street and learn if there was any news from Speedy. She was thinking rapidly. The casual words of the telephone girl about the 'transit hearing' had caused a clew to leap into Jane's head. Could there be any connection between this and somebody's energetic efforts to secure possession of her grandfather's franchise? Was the Inter-City Company really behind the evil doings of Carter?

Jane bought a noon edition of an afternoon paper at the newsstand on the corner and took it into the subway with her. There it was in big headlines:

{{letter|
{{uc|Inter-city to Offer}}
:{{uc|Unification Scheme}}
::{{uc|At Transit Hearing?}}
}}

As the subway express shot her uptown, she read how demands had been made by the city upon the Inter-City Railways that the traction company live up to their contracts and present their long-promised scheme for unification and extension of their far-flung transit lines or else forfeit their franchise to the municipal government. The program, she discovered, must include provision for linking the east

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side and west side surface lines of the company by a net work of crosstown spurs.

Jane's suspicions were aroused at once. Might not De Lacey Street, with the tracks of her grandfather's line already there and a franchise already in operation, be a very valuable plum for the Inter-City? She was sure now that this was the motive behind Carter's initial offer for the franchise and his subsequent activities. She began to wish that she had waited for President Donaldson after all, to confront him with this knowledge. Well, she would have her lunch and then go right back down to the Inter-City offices. If she could only find Steven Carter to fling his treachery into his face!

Strangely enough, when Jane reached home, Carter was the very person whom she unexpectedly encountered.

That suave individual was in the Dillon living toom talking over the telephone. Jane had opened the front door softly and walked down the hall with her usual light tread. Carter was quite unaware of her presence. Startled for an instant at the sound of this unexpected voice, Jane quickly recognized its owner and, with a sudden flash of caution, stopped outside in the hall out of Carter's sight to listen in on the conversation.

"Good work, Joe," Carter was praising somebody over the wire. "I guess that will hold them for a while. They'll never locate the car up there. Nobody but rats has been near the place for years. Now, what you fellows want to do is to keep a sharp lookout for this smart young Swift fellow

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over at the shack. He'll probably come snooping around there after information and it will be a good chance to grab him. I don't mind what you do to him this time. He started out from here about nine o'clock, Chubby says. After you pick up Puggy, go right back to the shack and be on the lookout for Swift. Get going now. You'll have to show some speed if you're going to make connections with Puggy at Powers and Third Avenue at the time you agreed upon."

At this point the man at the other end of the wire evidently brought up an alien subject.

"What's that?" Carter asked sharply. "Oh, don't worry about ''that!'' You'll get your dough all right. I've got big people behind me on this deal. Lots of money. This franchise is practically forfeited now. I'll make my settlement tonight, get my cash and come around and pay you boys off. With a substantial bonus for the good job you did. Well, see you later. So long, Joe."

Jane's Irish temper had been bristling more and more during Carter's talk. Now she knew he was a traitor! He had convicted himself out of his own mouth. Now she was positive the Inter-City was back of him and his nefarious schemes. To think that he was making his plans and gloating over his victory right there in the Dillon house, on the Dillon telephone!

The fact that she had once been friendly to Carter, had even succumbed a little to the undoubted attractions of his polished manners the other afternoon in the taxicab, made her all the more angry.

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Throwing discretion to the winds, she now walked boldly into the living room and accosted him. He sprang to his feet from the chair in front of the telephone stand with unfeigned surprise. His usually smooth address deserted him. He suspected at once that she had overheard his incriminating talk over the wire. He narrowed his dark eyes and regarded her with frank hostility and menace.

"So," he said sharply, "you sneaked in here and spied on {{SIC|me. "Youve|me. You've}} been listening out there."

"I guess I have the right to walk into my own house if I want to," replied Jane spiritedly. "Yes, I heard what you said. Speedy was right about you. You're working with the Inter-City crowd to cheat us out of our franchise. It was you who had my grandfather attacked. You sent that gang of hoodlums over here yesterday. And now you've stolen the car and hidden it. Oh, I was a fool to put any faith in you, even to defend you. You've been doing your underhanded work ever since the day you came here. You sent my grandfather away. Oh, what have you done to him! Where is he!"

Anger was strangely mixed with near-tears and her nerves seemed almost ready to snap under the tension. Carter decided to make one last try with cajolery. He summoned a pretended smile of sympathy to his face and patted her shoulder.

"There, there," he urged. "Don't get excited, Miss Dillon. Swift has been telling you more lies about me. I can explain that conversation I just had over the telephone. As a matter of fact, I've been hunting for the car ever since I learned this

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morning it was missing. And your grandfather is quite safe. You needn't worry about him."

With unexpected vehemence Jane seized his hand and flung it from her shoulder.

"You're lying again!" she cried. "You can't fool me any more. I've been up to the Inter-City office and discovered everything. And I'm going right back there now and find out the rest from President Donaldson himself. I'm going to tell him just what you've been doing up here."

This was too much for Carter. He could not see his plans go glimmering at the last minute at any cost.

"Is ''that'' so?" he said in a steely hard voice.

Suddenly he reached down, swung her off her feet and clapped one hand over her mouth so that she could not make outcry. The unexpectedness of his violence prevented any defense she might have made. Nevertheless she now kicked and struggled with all her might. But she was no match for the lithe, uncannily strong Carter. He bore her easily down the hall and into his own room at the end of the hall, kicking the door open to gain admission. Straight to the closet in the corner he carried her, dumped her down on the floor of the closet and slammed the door in her face. He locked the door quickly and securely and put the key into his pocket.

Jane screamed and pounded upon the door. But the Dillon house was of the old-fashioned, sturdily built type and the door was thick and strong. Even in the bedroom there her cries came muffled to

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Carter's ears. He grinned with satisfaction. There was not a chance that the people in the neighboring houses would hear her.

Well, she was getting what she deserved. He did not intend to allow any one to interfere with him at this late date. Jane, at liberty, would be very dangerous, with the knowledge she now possessed. He must keep her hidden and in captivity at least until four o'clock. He would return at that time to deal with her. She was such a pretty, attractive little thing. Perhaps when he told her of the money he would make that day, that was even now as good as in his pocket, she might not be as angry at him as she at the moment thought herself. Such was Carter's excellent opinion of his personal charm and of the lure which a full purse held out to feminine eyes.

He walked out of the house, completely satisfied with his strategy, and away from De Lacey Street by a devious route toward the shack of the Callahans. He wanted to check up with Callahan and Joe on the day's success.

De Lacey Street was discouraged. Johnny Burke reported that no word of the car had come to his ears. The searching parties straggled in with reports of failure. Speedy had apparently been swallowed up in the teeming welter of New York City and had not yet worked his way back. Pop Dillon had been missing for days. The outlook was bad, the neighbors agreed, for the Crosstown Railways, and villainy was apparently triumphant.

About four o'clock in the afternoon, Steven

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Carter, dropping surreptitiously out of a taxicab and scurrying across the sidewalk, hurried into the Dillon house. His face wore a troubled frown. He had had bad news. He had been driving around town looking for Speedy. He snatched up the telephone in the living room and snapped a number to the operator.

"Hello, hello—Puggy?" he called. "Any word? Yes? That's bad! How the devil did he find out where it was. No, I didn't see him. He's heading downtown, you say? That's terrible. You boys certainly slipped a cog. Listen, get out there and do something, will you! Get the gang together and stop him. Wreck him. I don't care if you all get arrested. I'll bail you out. If he gets here with that 'bus within the next half hour, we're all sunk! None of us get a nickel, understand? Go on now. Get going! Do something! Send—"

He glanced around quickly as he heard the front door open. Remembering his unfortunate experience when Jane overheard his previous conversation, Carter abruptly slammed up the receiver and scrambled to his feet. He was thus smiling and composed when he greeted Pop Dillon, suitcase in hand, as the latter ambled into the room.

"Why, Mr. Dillon, this is a surprise," said Carter, holding out his hand.

The fact that Pop readily shook hands reassured the shaken Carter. At least Pop was ignorant of what had been going on.

"How are you feeling now, Mr. Dillon?" Carter asked. At the same time he was silently bawling

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out his confederates in Spring Lake, Connecticut. Their orders had been not to let Dillon go until tomorrow.

"Pretty good now, Mr. Carter," replied Pop. "I got a wire from Speedy telling me to come right home. Funny thing about that wire. It was dated two days ago but the first I saw of it was this morning. I took the first train out I could get. I knew it must be important if Speedy wired. That boy hasn't got the price of sending a telegram for nothing."

"Don't worry about not getting the telegram till late," glibly explained Carter. "You know how it is in those small towns. They pass it all around Main Street for the rubes to read before they deliver it." He asked curiously, "Did Dr. Hartley say it was all right for you to leave Spring Lake? Blood pressure O.K. and all that?"

"No, he tried hard to get me to stay," admitted Pop. "Fact, he threatened to lock me in my room if I insisted on leaving. Said he was doing it for my own good, of course. But I fooled him. He got a long distance telephone call and I grabbed up my bag and ran. Just made the train. Say, I didn't like that Doc Hartley much, Carter. Friend of yours?"

"He's all right," said Carter. "A little rough, but he knows how to hand out the proper medicine."

Inwardly he was raging at "Dr. Hartley," alias Spike Hogan, for letting Pop Dillon out of his clutches. The aggravating part of it was that the long distance telephone call taking Spike away from

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his job of guarding Pop had been put in by Carter himself. He had 'phoned to warn Spike to hold Dillon there at any cost.

Carter now adopted new tactics. Pop had dropped into a chair. Carter sat down opposite him and hitched close. He smiled and adopted his best confidential manner. He would have to act quickly. The frustration of all his plans and the loss of a young fortune was fast approaching in the shape of the flying Speedy Swift, unless that mad youth were stopped, and it seemed too late for that now. Carter determined to forestall fate by a bold stroke. He laid a friendly hand on Pop's knee.

"I don't mind telling you now, Mr. Dillon," said Carter, "that it was I who told young Swift to send that telegram. I wanted you back here because I have good news for you. You will remember that several days ago I found a man who was willing to pay you $1,000 for that worthless Crosstown franchise of yours? When you refused, he withdrew his offer. Well, I saw him again today and, after talking to him an hour or more, I got him to make the offer again. Only this time I made him believe there were competitors in the field and hiked the price up to $5,000. Will you sell?"

Pop became thoughtful and stroked his chin.

"The offer is only good for today," urged Carter. "In fact, this man set the time limit at four-thirty this afternoon. He leaves his office then and he said if I didn't 'phone him by that time, the deal was off."

Pop was still silent, unable to make up his mind.
{{nop}}

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"Think what comforts you could buy for your granddaughter with $5,000," Carter played his trump card. "And you know this franchise is worthless. You'll never get another offer like this for it."

Carter glanced anxiously at the clock on the mantelpiece. Twenty-five minutes after four. From outside there came a sudden shouting and yelling. Had that fool Swift actually arrived! Perspiration Started to stand out on Carter's forehead. He was so nervous he could hardly sit still. The hesitating old man in front of him aggravated him almost to the point of seizing him by the throat and forcing him into submission to Carter's will!

The argument about Jane's welfare fetched Dillon.

"All right, I'll take the offer," he said quietly. "Jane's always been urging me to give up the line."

"Fine!" almost shouted Carter, so vehemently that Pop looked at him in surprise. Carter whipped a contract from his pocket. "I've got the papers right here! Here's where you sign."

"But—of course I'd have to read this over first," protested Pop, taking the contract with trembling old fingers while Carter reached down, swept up the old man's valise and placed it on Pop's knees as an improvised desk.

"No time for that now," panted Carter. "It's twenty-five after four. Our man will be gone. He's perhaps leaving his office now!"

Carter urged a fountain pen upon Pop. The latter took it uncertainly. He started to write his

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name quaveringly on the dotted line indicated by Carter. He wrote "Jerimiah Dil{{bar|2}}"

Then suddenly there was a mighty shout in De Lacey Street just in front of the Dillon house. A shrieking and yelling that almost shook the Dillon windows! Pop dropped the pen, leaped up and went to the living-room window. He looked out, amazed. Then, forgetting Carter, he rushed out of the front door as fast as his old legs would carry him.

A wild, gesticulating mob of Pop's neighbors were milling around in the streets. In the middle of this pandemonium loomed Pop's horse car. Pushing his way through the cheering throng, grasping hands thrust out to greet him, taking a congratulatory pounding on his back that almost knocked him over, came the broadly grinning Speedy, afoot. He spotted Pop and increased his speed. He ran full tilt up to the old man and threw his arms around him.

"We found it, Pop. We made the trip and saved your franchise! We fooled Carter and everything's great!" roared Speedy.

Pop was puzzled.

"I don't know what you mean or why this Donnybrook Fair is going on," said Pop. "But I've good news for you too. I'm selling the franchise for $5,000. What do you think of that? I guess there's brains in the old—"

Speedy turned pale. He grabbed Pop by the shoulders.

"You didn't!" he cried. "Pop, you didn't sign anything, did you?"
{{nop}}

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"Well, I had my name half written when these crazy people made me think the house was on fire or something. I'll go back in now and sign, if it ain't too late. Mr. Carter said—"

"Carter, hey!" said Speedy sharply. "Where is he?"

"In the house."

"Great!" Speedy turned to his cohorts and waved them toward him. "Come on, you wild men. Carter's in Pop's house. Let's get him!"

With a whoop they poured up onto the sidewalk, King Tut barking in the front rank and Speedy rushing ahead of them all. Pop had barely time to step out of the way. But their prey had been too quick for them. Realizing he was beaten, Carter had deemed flight the better part of valor and long since disappeared out of the back door and over a neighbor's fence. Nevertheless, Speedy, not satisfied that the enemy was really off the premises, made a rigid search of the house.

In the room Carter had occupied as a boarder he found the closet door locked. Pop Dillon was now close at his heels.

"I bet he's in here!" exulted Speedy. "He's locked himself in. Got a key to this closet?"

Pop extracted a bunch of keys from his pocket almost as great in number as the turnkey of Sing Sing carries. He indicated one of them. Speedy took it and excitedly thrust it into the lock of the closet door. He swung the door open, ready to deal a resounding blow to the chin of Carter if he were discovered inside.
{{nop}}

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Instead, Jane, weak and nearly unconscious, fell into his arms!

"Oh, Speedy, you've come at last," she gasped.

"Jane!" he cried. "How did you get there?"

"Carter—he put me in there. I heard him telephoning—and he locked me up."

Speedy had her in his arms, was smoothing back her hair, asking questions. He laid her tenderly on the couch and brought water from the kitchen. Jane quickly revived.

Speedy turned to his supporters, who were standing in awed surprise in the doorway and down the hall.

"He's gone," said Speedy.

"And I guess we better be going too," grinned Barnett, the butcher, looking at Speedy and Jane. He waved the others back and they piled out of the house and dispersed to their homes. Excitement still seethed on De Lacey Street. The neighborhood for the past two days had been thoroughly enjoying thrills for the first time since Manhattan was bought from the Indians for twenty-four dollars!

When they were alone at last, Jane told her story and Speedy united with her to relate to Pop all the critical {{SIC|devlopments|developments}} that had taken place while he was away. Pop listened, all ears.

"Why, the doggoned skunk!" was his impressive comment on Carter and that worthy's activities. "And to think that I was dumb enough to be taken in by him!"

He seemed to regard this as a sign of a failing

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mind and was more worried about it than the danger in which his franchise had been.

"Don't fret about that, granddad," soothed Jane. "He fooled me completely too. You remember how I got mad at Harold for accusing Mr. Carter." She looked over shyly at Speedy. "Harold was the only one smart enough to see through him."

"I had a hunch he was crooked—just a hunch," explained Speedy. "I guess it was really jealousy at first, just as you said."

Pop had been thinking.

"But what do you suppose he was so darned anxious to put us out of business for?" Pop asked. "There must be something behind it all."

Speedy started to explain his suspicions that the Inter-City or some other traction company might be in the market for the Crosstown franchise. The front door bell rang. The three in the bedroom looked at each other. What was going to happen now? Speedy rose slowly and walked toward the front of the house, prepared for anything. It was probably the police, come to arrest him for violating every traffic law of New York City and insulting officers from Columbus Circle to the Bowery! Or was it Puggy Callahan, supported by his hearties and come for his revenge?

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{{sc|Speedy}} stood at the front door of the Dillon house, his hand upon the knob, his ear to the inside of the panel, listening carefully. He could hear nothing amiss. He opened the door cautiously at a crack and looked out. Then he opened the door wide and stood questioningly.

A tall, distinguished-looking, gray-haired man, a stranger to Speedy, stood in front of him. A luxurious limousine, with a trimly uniformed chauffeur in the front seat, was parked at the curb.

"Does Miss Jane Dillon live here?" asked the stranger.

Speedy nodded affirmatively.

"I should like very much to speak with her," continued the visitor.

Speedy, mystified, ushered him into the living room, indicated the best chair and went to get Jane.

"He looks like J. P. Morgan," whispered Speedy.

Both Pop and Speedy walked behind Jane as she catne to greet the new arrival. The latter arose.

"I am President Donaldson of the Inter-City Transit Company," he announced in a mild, pleasant voice. "You left a note for me, Miss Dillon. I was curious to know what it was you wished to tell me."

The thrilling events of the day, including her imprisonment, had driven from Jane's mind tem-

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porarily the memory of her call at the Inter-City office and her message to Mr. Donaldson. It now came back vividly to her.

"My grandfather here—"she indicated Pop—"owns the Crosstown Railways, Mr. Donaldson. We thought—at least, our friend Mr. Swift here thought—that you might be able to explain some mysterious things that have been happening to my grandfather's property during the past few days."

Jane was confused. But a certain native shrewdness, even amid her agitation, told her not to indicate any suspicion that the Inter-City might be interested in purchasing the Crosstown franchise.

Speedy was more direct and precipitate. "What Miss Dillon means," he explained, "is that a man named Carter has been pulling off a lot of dirty work up here and we have reason to suspect that he is in some way connected with your company. First he tries to have Mr. Dillon here bumped off. Then he hires the Callahan gang and orders them to put us all out of business. Finally he has the horse and car stolen, so we can't make our run and risk losing our franchise, or so he hoped."

"I can't believe that," Mr. Donaldson shook his head. This statement was not quite true. He had never completely trusted Carter.

"Then I'll prove it," promised Speedy. "Let's all sit down."

They did. Speedy told the whole story of Carter's nefarious career from the time of his arrival in De Lacey Street.
{{nop}}

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When he had finished, President Donaldson caught his breath and said, "But Carter has bought this franchise, hasn't he?"

"He certainly has not," fairly shouted Pop Dillon, recovering his voice at last.

"Carter telephoned me this morning that he would surely have the franchise by nightfall," protested Donaldson.

"He missed his guess. Speedy here attended to that," chuckled Pop Dillon. "Carter made me several offers for the property, but I turned them all down."

Pop was trying to give an imitation of a very shrewd business man.

"In that case," said President Donaldson promptly and slowly, "perhaps you'll think better of my offer. I'll give you $75,000 spot cash for the franchise, the papers to be signed in my office within the next hour."

There was a deep silence. Pop, Jane and Speedy sat as if stunned. Pop exhaled softly and with some effort. But he felt that he simply must appear nonchalant.

"Is that your very best offer, Mr. Donaldson?" he asked, cocking his head on one side like a very smart old owl.

"It is."

"Then I'll take it," said Pop quickly, fearful now that the transit magnate would change his mind and Paradise would abruptly vanish.

"Very well. Will you ride downtown with me? My lawyer is waiting in my office, though I admit

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it was Carter whom he thought he would be doing business with," said Donaldson.

Pop got his hat.

"Like to come along, young folks?" he asked amiably, as if inviting his granddaughter and his young friend into rich men's limousines were an every-day occurrence for him. Pop was already sitting on top of the world, and looked it.

Speedy suddenly remembered something—something that would keep him there alone with Jane.

"Gosh, I can't go. I've left Nellie and the car out there in front of the house," cried Speedy. "But ''you'' go, Jane."

"No, I'll help you unhitch and feed Nellie," said Jane, smiling sweetly at him in recognition of his strategy.

As he walked out behind Mr. Donaldson, Pop, his hat set rakishly on his gray head, winked slowly.

When the front door closed behind the two others, Speedy abruptly took Jane in his arms and kissed her. She blushed happily.

"To think of that Carter shoving you into a closet. Why, you might have starved," he declared indignantly.

"I wasn't worried. I knew you'd come," declared Jane, still blushing from his caress. As he made a move to repeat the kiss, she pushed him gently away. "Come on, Harold, Nellie will be getting cold. She's had a strenuous day. She deserves her supper."

When they approached the car, they saw that someone—probably Mertz, the florist—had filled

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the whole front platform of the car with roses and other fragrant blooms from his shop. The neighbors were still congregated on the sidewalks and a knot of them stood in front of the Dillon house, attracted by the limousine and the fact that Speedy would have to appear some time and drive the car to its barn. They had cheered Pop Dillon when he had come walking out with the tall, rich-appearing stranger. They now cheered Speedy and Jane to the echo.

The ride down the street became a triumphant procession. Jane stood proudly beside Speedy as he drove. King Tut ran barking alongside them. Even old Nellie, tired as she was, raised her head and stepped like a two-year-old. De Lacey Street—men, women and children—walked along beside the car shouting and cheering. Just before Nellie turned in off the street and toward the barn, Chris Walters jumped on the step of the car and shouted above the din to Speedy, "We want both of you and Pop to come down to the barn tonight to the celebration. Where's Pop anyway?"

"He's with President Donaldson of the Inter-City selling the franchise of this line for $75,000," said Speedy proudly.

"Say, that's great! What do you know about that!" cried Chris. "Well, say, tell him to bring his friend Donaldson with him, if he'll come. We'll show the big boy some real De Lacey Street hospitality."

"I'll telephone him at Mr. Donaldson's office," promised Speedy.
{{nop}}

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Thus it was that at the big banquet of triumph that night in the Crosstown carbarn John Donaldson sat at the right hand of Pop Dillon, who occupied the seat of honor at the head of the table. Speedy was at Pop's left, and beside Speedy and very close to him sat a very bright-eyed Jane, looking especially lovely in her white party dress. Ranged on either side of the festive board and overflowing out of the car into the barn were the celebrants.

Walters and Barnett and Mertz and Le Duc—all of them. Johnny Burke, in a brand new and neatly creased uniform, was telling everybody "what a great guy this Speedy is." For Speedy Swift had risen in two days from the rôle of the neighborhood ne'er-do-well to that of De Lacey Street's pride and joy.

Walters and the others had worked like yeomen decorating the car and barn with flowers and bunting and preparing the feast on short notice. There was even a band. And a newspaper reporter. And a man from one of the tabloid papers equipped with a camera and a flashlight that made everybody jump—and look scared to death in the paper the next morning.

Of course there was no end of speeches. Chris Walters acted as toastmaster. He hailed Pop Dillon as a sterling citizen of De Lacey Street who had weathered many storms of adversity, survived valiantly and was now the recipient of the great good luck of selling his franchise for a fortune. He called upon Pop for a response.
{{nop}}

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Pop arose with a very full heart. He gave Speedy full credit for saving the Crosstown Railways from the forces of evil. He told the story of the boy from the time he had been left in Pop's charge by the elder Swift. At the mention of his father's name, a cloud for the first time that evening passed over Speedy's happy face. If only his father were there to share his triumph!

"Speedy was always a good boy," concluded Pop. "A little wild at times maybe. People said he wasn't steady. He had a lot of jobs and lost them so quickly that I don't believe he could remember them all himself. But folks didn't understand him. He was too full of life for them. But he's proved himself in the last few days. He's shown more good sense and ability than any boy of his age that I ever knew."

Pop glanced mischievously from Speedy to Jane. He had reserved an announcement for his climax that he knew would be a surprise even to them. But he didn't think they would mind.

"I haven't asked their permission," twinkled Pop, "but I guess now I can announce it: My granddaughter Jane and Speedy are engaged to be married, and I wouldn't want a better grandson-in-law."

Speedy and Jane were both startled. The whole banquet arose to its feet and cheered and drank the health of the newly engaged couple in ginger ale. Speedy took Jane's hand and squeezed it. He glanced at her pleadingly, asking her to confirm Pop's rather premature statement. She nodded "Yes," blushing.
{{nop}}

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Walters and four or five other De Lacey Streeters got up and reviewed the events of the past few days, giving Speedy full credit for the victories. John Donaldson was gazing at the youth from time to time intently, sizing him up.

And then the feasters started shouting for Speedy himself to talk. He was very red of face and nervous when he finally yielded.

"There never were such friends in all the world as all of you have been to Pop and Jane and me," he declared earnestly. "I didn't do a thing that any one of you couldn't have done. And if Pop had been here, he would have accomplished everything so much better and without near as much fuss. And Jane here—she's been a peach! Pop was very easy on me when he talked about the jobs I got and lost. I don't deserve to be let off so nicely. I've been a lot of a rattle-brain. Maybe I'm one yet. Luck certainly had a lot to do with any success I may have had in the last few days. Luck—and the way you all stuck by me.

"But now I'm engaged to Jane and I'm going to try and make something out of myself. I've got something to work for. I'm just going to ask you all, including Jane, to believe in me and give me a chance until I make good."

When the applause had died down, Chris Walters, a little hesitantly, asked President Donaldson if he would like to say a few words. Donaldson willingly arose.

"First, I want to make clear that anything Steven Carter did down here was entirely without my

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knowledge and sanction," he said ringingly. "I have been suspicious of that man for a long time and, of course, I know now that he is unquestionably a shady character. But let's not discuss him on this happy occasion. I was very much interested to hear of the career of this young man whom you call Speedy—and I guess he earned the name today—and of his courage and his ability and his engagement to Mr. Dillon's charming {{SIC|grandaughter|granddaughter}}.

"If it is not out of order to inject a little business into such a pleasurable affair, I want to ask Mr. Swift if he will come to my office at ten o'clock next Monday morning to discuss a certain position with the Inter-City Company which is open at the present time and into which I believe a young man of his energy and ingenuity will fit very nicely. Will you, Swift?"

"You bet!" cried Speedy loudly.

There were more congratulations, and it was after midnight when the celebration broke up.
{{dhr}}
Pop, Jane and Speedy walked slowly up moonlit De Lacey Street together. All were very tired and happy. Pop was thoughtful.

"It's going to seem funny not to be driving old Nellie out in the morning and saying 'Howdy' to the neighbors on the car," he said a little sadly. "I must find a good home for Nellie somewhere out in the country and turn her out to pasture so she can get fat and lazy. I guess for $75,000 we can find her a farm where there's plenty of rich green grass, hey?"
{{nop}}

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Jane and Speedy nodded.

"I hope you two aren't sore because I announced your engagement," said Pop slyly. "I wasn't wrong, was I?"

Jane and Speedy nodded again—reassuringly. They looked at each other.

Pop caught the meaning of their silence and their glance. When they reached the Dillon home, he made a great show of winding the clock and yawning. Then he said good night significantly and went to bed.

When they were alone, on the divan in the living room, Speedy said, "You will marry me, won't you, Jane?"

"Of course," laughed Jane. "I've meant to ever since I've known you."

Speedy murmured something foolish and swept her into his arms.

When they were apart again, he declared earnestly, "I meant every word I said at the banquet about making good. Somehow I seem to have turned from a boy into a man, all in the last few days. I was such a boob before. Now I seem suddenly to have found out what it was all about. I feel a sense of responsibility that I never had before. It all came about because the people I love—you and Pop—were in danger, and it was up to me to do something about it.

"For the first time in my life I had a burden placed on me that I couldn't run away from. I guess it's coming up against something tough that develops a fellow, isn't it?"
{{nop}}

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Jane nodded agreement, her head on his shoulder.

"Pop says he'll give us half of what he got for the franchise when we get married," Jane offered slyly.

"Well, we won't take it," declared Speedy. "I'll make all the money we need. I'll see Mr. Donaldson and I'll get that job and I'll make good. I appreciate Pop's offer, but it isn't right to make it easy for young married people. They ought to get out and dig for a living. At least this particular young married couple will. Won't they?"

He looked at her so belligerently that she burst into soft laughter.

"You needn't get so excited about it," she chaffed. "I told Pop we wouldn't take his money a second after he offered it."

"That's right," said Speedy.

Then suddenly Jane slipped out of his arms, as she remembered something. She hurried over to the mantelpiece, above the fireplace, and took down an envelope that was lying there.

"The postman left this just before we went to the celebration," said Jane. "It's for you, Harold. It has a funny-looking stamp on it and it may be important. I was so excited about going to the banquet that I clean forgot all about it until just now."

She handed the letter to Speedy and settled down on the divan beside him. As soon as he saw the handwriting of the address, he turned pale. He quickly scrutinized the stamp and the post mark.
{{nop}}

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"Why," he gasped uncertainly, "this must be from my father!"

Jane leaned closer as he excitedly tore open the envelope and unfolded its contents.
{{dhr}}
"Dear Son:" wrote the elder Swift, "I haven't time now to explain why you haven't heard from me in all these years. I'll be with you soon so that I can tell it to you from my own lips. It's enough to say now that I joined a scientific expedition into the interior of South America a month or so after I wrote my last letter, we ran into more adventures than I could cram into ten novels, and the remnant of our party that is left has just returned to civilization. The only redeeming feature is that we discovered a rich deposit of rare metal that has made all three of us very wealthy. We set up claims and have just equipped an expedition to go back there and work the deposits.

"I am well, as I pray that you are also. I have had more than enough of South America. I am returning to the States, leaving here next week. I am terribly anxious to see you. You must be a grown man now. I can hardly believe it. I am not allowing myself even to consider the possibility that anything amiss has happened to you or to my dear old friend Jerry Dillon and that this letter may never reach you. Give Pop my love. I will see you both soon."
{{dhr}}
Speedy's eyes were glistening as he looked from the letter to Jane.
{{nop}}

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"That makes it perfect," he said softly. "The three people in the world I love—I'm to have them all."

Jane, her own eyes moistening suspiciously, put her arms around him. They sat silently a moment. Then she disengaged herself and ran upstairs to tell her grandfather the great news.

Pop came into the living room wearing a handsome new suit of pajamas which he had purchased that afternoon after leaving Mr. Donaldson's office. The old man had left his nightgown up at Spring Lake, so precipitously had he dashed out of that dangerous resort. He seemed to have grown ten years younger since selling his franchise.

Speedy proceeded to put an arm around each of the Dillons.

"Well, well," said Pop when he had read it. "That's great, wonderful! I always had an idea he would come back some day. He always was a tough one to knock out. And you take after him. What a week this has been for you, Speedy! Only hope it keeps up."

Speedy put an arm around each of the Dillons.

"While I've got you two, it can't help but keep up," he said stoutly.

Pop smiled.

"Sure," he said. Then he said humorously to Speedy, "Seems to me you sorta liked baseball at one time. How about all three of us going up to the Yankee Stadium tomorrow afternoon and seeing a game of the World's Series—from a box seat?

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Mr. Donaldson gave me the tickets. He's tied up at some transit hearing or something down at the City Hall."

"What could be sweeter!" whooped Speedy at once.

"And now what we all had better do is go to bed," said the sensible Jane.

"Speedy can sleep in Mr. Carter's old room," offered Pop. And added slyly, "If he ain't afraid our star boarder will come back."

"Let him come!" roared Speedy happily. "I can lick the world now!"/last/

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