“Oh, hello, Sam! That you?” asked Hal, recognizing the driver.
“Horn spoon! Ef it ain’t Hal!” exclaimed the jitney-man. “Back ag’in, eh? What the devil you been up to? Shirt tore, an’ one eye looks like you’d been—”
“Oh, nothing,” Hal answered, while certain taggers-on stopped at a respectful distance. “I’ve just been arguing with McLaughlin, aboard the Sylvia Fletcher. It’s nothing at all.” He helped his grandfather into the car and then, gripping the Airedale so that it yelped with pain, he pitched it in. “How much do you want to take us down to Snug Haven?”
“Well—that’ll be a dollar ’n’ a half, seein’ it’s you.”
“You’ll get one nice, round little buck, Sam.”
“Git out! You, an’ the cap’n, an’ the dog, an’ a tussik! Why—”
Hal climbed into the car. He leaned forward, his face close to Sam’s. The seethe of rage seemed to have departed. Now Hal was all joviality. Swiftly the change had come upon him.
“Sam!” he admonished. “You know perfectly well seventy-five cents would be robbery, but I’ll give you a dollar. Put her into high.”
The driver sniffed Hal’s breath, and nodded acceptance.