“I hope you're not hurt, sir,” the Hawk heard him say—and then the two moved on together toward the corner.
The Hawk shook his shoulders in a queer, almost self-apologetic sort of way, as he followed again. And then he smiled as queerly. The Bantam had the bag now, and, if he, the Hawk, were permitted to hazard an opinion, the Wire Devils had very kindly picked the fruit again for him to eat!
At the corner, the Bantam shook hands with the Frenchman, and, stepping out into the street, signalled an approaching car. Quick, alert on the instant, the Hawk, safe in the protection of the crowded sidewalk, moved swiftly along in the direction that the car would take, his eyes searching the street on both sides for a taxicab. The street car passed him, but stopped at the next corner, and he caught up with it again. And then, over his shoulder, he saw a taxi coming up behind him. He stepped from the curb, and stopped it.
“Sorry, sir,” said the chauffeur. “I'm going after a fare.”
“You've got one now—and a good one,” said the Hawk quietly. He had opened the door—a ten-dollar bill lay in the chauffeur's hand.
“Yes, but look here, sir,” said the chauffeur, a little dubiously, “I'll get into trouble for this, and——”
The Hawk had stepped inside, and lowered the window between himself and the chauffeur.
“Follow that car,” said the Hawk pleasantly. “And while we're on the crowded streets don't get so far behind it that you can't close up near enough to see who gets off every time it stops. And don't worry about your trouble—there's another ten coming on top of the regular fare. That's good enough, isn't it?”
“I guess I'm not kicking!” admitted the chauffeur. The taxi started forward. He looked back over his shoulder at the Hawk. “What's the lay? Fly-cop?”
“Maybe!” said the Hawk. “Mind yourself! It's stopping again. Keep where I can see both sides of the car.”