“Over that way.”
“That’s the way we go then.” Sandy darted toward the exit, and Ken followed.
Like a broken-field runner Sandy ducked, pivoted, and plunged through the crowd, with Ken always close behind him, until they emerged into the street. Just in front of them a taxicab was discharging a baggage-laden passenger. Sandy crossed the sidewalk in a single leap.
“Come on!” he shouted to Ken. To the driver he said, “Chatham Square—as fast as you can get there!”
Ken barely managed to pull the door shut behind himself as the taxi started off. He collapsed breathless against the cushions.
“Where’s he taking us?” he asked, as soon as he could speak.
Sandy opened his mouth to answer, but the words were pushed back down his throat as the driver swung left, with wildly squealing brakes, an instant before the green light blinked off.
“Wherever it is,” Ken gasped, “do we have to go in this much of a hurry?”
“It’s Chatham Square,” Sandy answered. “And we do.”
Ken blinked. “What makes you think—?” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence. The cab driver was sounding his horn so loudly, in impatience at a slow-moving truck up ahead, that speech was useless.