A street car slipped past, bobbing down the track like a duck
sailing over ripples. A local train clanged down to the depot and
stood jangling its bell while it disgorged passengers for the
last boat to the City whose wall of stars was hidden behind the
drizzle and the clinging fog. People came straggling down the
sidewalk--not many, for few had business with the front end of
the waiting trains. Bud pushed the throttle up a little. His
fingers dropped down to the gear lever, his foot snuggled against
the clutch pedal.
Feet came hurrying. Two voices mumbled together. "Here he is,"
said one. "That's the number I gave him." Bud felt some one step
hurriedly upon the running board. The tonneau door was yanked
open. A man puffed audibly behind him. "Yuh ready?" Foster's
voice hissed in Bud's ear.
"R'aring to go." Bud heard the second man get in and shut the
door, and he jerked the gear lever into low. His foot came gently
back with the clutch, and the car slid out and away.
Foster settled back on the cushions with a sigh. The other man
was fumbling the side curtains, swearing under his breath when
his fingers bungled the fastenings.
"Everything all ready?" Foster's voice was strident with
anxiety.
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