Dirlam's?" he expostulated. "I'm takin' you the shortest way up, ain't I?"
"Get out of this Park," shouted back his fare with an unreasonable show of anger. But the car was still crawling forward.
"Then I'll cut out through the Seventy-second Street gate," announced the man on the driving-seat as he speeded up again. He had the inward satisfaction of hearing the taxi-door slam shut. He took a turn at high speed to the west, tried to correct what appeared a mistake, turned again, skidded, and came up with a bump against the stone base of a large drinking-fountain.
The cab-door opened again as the driver emerged from under his water-proof apron. He found himself assailed by an oath of anger which seemed quite out of keeping with that benignant looking figure in black.
"What is it this time?"
"Engine's gone dead," was the gloomy response. He walked to the front of the car and began to crank.
Then he stood up, with a gesture of helplessness, staring about as though looking for some quarter from which help might miraculously come. But they seemed alone in a world of driving rain.
Then the driver stepped about to the side of the car, placing one hand against the partly opened door, for he saw that his fare had taken up the black bag and was about to step out.
"You know anything about engines?" he demanded, blocking the other's way. He made a pretence of doing this unconsciously. But the other man had grown suddenly suspicious.
