How is this? the detective inquired, with a jerk of his thumb toward the interior of the car.
How’s what? inquired the Irishman.
Nine passengers got on and you only rung up eight fares.
Is that so, responded the conductor, with a look of innocent surprise. He cautiously counted the fares on the large dial. The spotter was waiting. Begorra, yer right. Wan of thim has got to git off.
Thomas Patrick Gallagher, typical Irish traffic copper, was stationed on Madison street in Chicago at the point intersected by the river.
One bustling Saturday afternoon, Gallagher held up his hand to halt traffic for the draw bridge. In front of him was a new handsome limousine motor car.
While waiting for the bridge to close, a runabout flivver crashed into the rear end of the handsome car.
Gallagher was on the job promptly and hustled over to the driver of the flivver.