"I said you were a mind reader," answered Ralston.
"I guess I can see furder'n most," admitted cabby complacently.
Ralston had struck a match and lit a fresh cigar. He was feeling very, very tired. His watch showed that there were exactly six hours left before the Twelfth would start—not a minute more.
The cabby was still peering down the manhole and dropping an occasional sympathetic ash on Ralston's silk hat. His fare interested him—he was beginning to have a notion that Ralston was somebody. Maybe a big military gun. He had that clean, hard look those fellers have.
Suddenly the fare spoke again, in an even more amiable tone than before.
"My friend, how long have you been in this business?"
The cabby hesitated while he made an accurate mathematical computation.
"Five years on a percentage—ten years on my own—fifteen years, sir."
"You know the town pretty well, eh?"
"Fairly well, sir."