“Trunk, Miss?”
“Yes. Here is the check.”
The chauffeur got out of his seat quickly and took the check.
“It’s so much a mile. The little clock tells you the fare,” he said, pleasantly.
“All right,” replied Helen. “You get the trunk,” and she stepped into the vehicle.
In a few moments he was back with the trunk and secured it on the roof of his cab. Then he reached in and tucked a cloth around his passenger, although the evening was not cold, and got in under the wheel. In another moment the taxicab rolled out from under the roofed concourse.
Helen had never ridden in any vehicle that went so smoothly and so fast. It shot right downtown, mile after mile; but Helen was so interested in the sights she saw from the window of the cab that she did not worry about the time that elapsed.
By and by they went under an elevated railroad structure; the street grew more narrow and—to tell the truth—Helen thought the place appeared rather dirty and unkempt.
Then the cab was turned suddenly across the way, under another elevated structure, and into a narrow, noisy, ill-kept street.
“Can it be that Uncle Starkweather lives in this part of the town?” thought Helen, in amazement.