Mr. Felton and Miss Hathaway emerge from the hotel, followed by a porter with their trunks. Amid a chorus of “Keb, sir!” “Keb!” “Keb!” in which Riley sings a heavy bass, Mr. Felton looks about him in perplexity, and finally, as though annoyed by the importunities of Riley, who is rather overdoing his part, he selects a rival “cabbie.”
Riley turns somewhat sheepishly to Van Zandt, who looks after the disappearing carriage in vexation.
“Shall I run them down, sor?” asks the Irishman, with a wink which means volumes.
“Can you prevent them reaching the pier?”
“Sure, I think so, your honor.”
“I’ll give you $50 if you do it.”
“Be hivens! I’d murdther thim for that,” exclaims Riley, as he leaps to his box.
The two cabs proceeded at a smart pace down Fifth Avenue, but as the congested trucking district is reached progress becomes slower.
“Can you make the pier in time?” Mr. Felton asks the driver anxiously, consulting his watch for the dozenth time.
“Sure thing,” is the confident response.