The tug came from his taxi driver.
“Hey, you hurt?” asked the flyer, rubbing futilely at the smudged knees of his—or, rather, Bob’s—white flannels.
“Naw, except lost a little breath,” said the latter, a hardened night hawk. “Wheel stopped me,” he added. “But, say, who pays for this? If you don’t wanta pony up yerself, better help me ketch the old hombre what rammed us. There he goes.”
He pointed to a high-powered, long-snouted touring car of midnight blue, with shining German silver trimmings, gleaming in the street. A uniformed driver had just finished inspecting his car for possible damage, and was climbing back to the driver’s seat. From the rear, a shrill voice in broken English shrieked adjurations to the chauffeur to hurry.
“Old billy goat in the back’s all excited,” explained the jehu. “Been a-chasin’ somebody, I gather, an’ rammed us in ’is hurry. Payin’ no attention to us.”
“Here, that won’t do. We want an explanation, anyhow,” declared the army flyer, firmly.
“Wait here, I’ll be back,” he said.
And thrusting aside several Mexicans who stood in his way, he made a run for the big car just as it got into motion. The crowd stared in astonishment. One or two tourists raised a cheer. The jehu leaned on his tilting taxi with a sour grin riding his features. Bob emerging from the taxi at that moment, one hand raised to caress a considerable-sized bump on his head, saw Captain Cornell make a flying leap and land on the running board of the other car, just as the chauffeur picking up speed stepped on the gas and it leaped ahead.
“Hey, where you goin’?” yelled Bob.
But if any reply was vouchsafed by the doughty flyer, the speed with which the big car got under way neutralized it. Bob made a step forward into the street in astonishment, but the jehu’s hand on his arm arrested him.