“Did ye stop me to kid me?” snarled the chauffeur. “Ye don’t need to think ’cause you got on a bull’s uniform ye can hurl the harpoon into me. Or if it’s a drink ye’re wantin’ reach in under the seat an’ there’s a flask. If ye meant hair oil why didn’t ye say it?”
“Thanks, but ’tis no drink I’m afther,” said the young man. “’Tis a ride to a hair store, an’ here’s a tin-spot fer yer trouble.”
It was the way Travers Gladwin handled the skirts of his coat in getting at his money that convinced the wise chauffeur that he had no real policeman to deal with. His grin came back and looped up behind at either ear.
“I getcher, Steve,” he broke out, reaching for the bill. “If it’s disguises ye’re after hop inside an’ I’ll tool youse over to Mme. Flynn’s on Avenue A.”
To demonstrate to his uniformed fare that speed laws in the greater city of New York fail to impose any manner of hamper upon the charioteering of the motor-driven hack, the chauffeur of this canary-colored taxi scampered across town at a forty-mile-an-hour clip, during which Patrolman Gladwin failed to familiarize himself with the quality of the cab’s cushions. But it was not a long ride and there was some breath left in him when the cab came to a crashing stop.
The young man was on the point of opening the door when a voice stopped him.
“Kape inside, ye boob, an’ pull the blinds down. There’s coppers on every corner. Now, what is it ye want in the way o’ whiskers or hair? Ye can slip me the change through the crack.”
“What’s the prevailin’ style?” asked Gladwin, with a laugh. “Are they wearin’ brown beards?”
“They are not,” mumbled the chauffeur. “I guess a wee bit mustache an’ a black wig will do ye, an’ if ye want I’ll get ye a pair of furry eyebrows.”