Late in the morning, once more in his place after running a dozen errands, Jimmie was dreaming of the trap he was to set that night when he heard a loud booming voice say:
“Is there a boy by the name of Jimmie Drury here?”
“Why, yes,” came in a feminine voice. “He’s one of our copy boys.”
“Want to see him,” boomed the other voice.
“It’s Harm Stark, the silver fox king,” said Jimmie, springing to his feet.
“Here I am,” he called.
“Oh, there you are,” Harm Stark roared. “I had one old time getting by the policeman at the elevator. Thought I was some crook, I guess. Come along with me. I’ll show you things.”
“Just a minute,” Jimmie hurried to say a few words to the man at the desk. The man smiled, threw a hasty glance at Jimmie’s giant, then nodded. At once Jimmie was away.
Once on the sidewalk Stark hailed a taxi, crowded Jimmie in beside him, then called a number.
One habit Jimmie had formed which he was to live to regret was that once inside a taxi he felt as if he were in a room with shades down. The world of streets outside meant nothing to him, if another had given orders; nor did he pay any attention to the direction and destination toward which the cab was going. His whole interest was in the person who rode with him.