One question after another elicited little that could be construed as intelligence. If Craig had only been able to see, he would have found out that, with his back toward the taxicab driver, the hobo held one hand behind him and made the sign of the Clutching Hand, glancing surreptitiously at the driver to catch the answering sign, while Craig gazed earnestly up the two roads.
At last Craig gave him up as hopeless. "Well—go ahead—that way," he indicated, picking the most likely road.
As the chauffeur was about to start, he stalled his engine.
"Hurry!" urged Craig, exasperated at the delays.
The driver got out and tried to crank the engine. Again and again he turned it over, but, somehow, it refused to start. Then he lifted the hood and began to tinker.
"What's the matter?" asked Craig, impatiently jumping out and bending over the engine, too.
The driver shrugged his shoulders. "Must be something wrong with the ignition, I guess," he replied.
Kennedy looked the car over hastily. "I can't see anything wrong," he frowned.
"Well, there is," growled the driver.
Precious minutes were speeding away, as they argued. Finally with his characteristic energy, Kennedy put the taxicab driver aside.