“Penn Station,” he muttered. “Going to Boston.”
“Boston?” queried the door man. “You want Grand Central.”
“Couldn’t get a ticket on the regular train,” argued Ames, apparently recuperated. “Have to take the car that gets picked up at Penn by the through train from Washington. Pennsylvania Station” - this was to the driver - “and take it slowly. I’ll feel better if you do.”
The cab pulled away and another drew up. Muttering to himself, the door man opened the cab door, thinking Phil wanted it.
“Oughtn’t to have let him go,” the door man was saying, referring to Ames. “He may be wrong about that sleeper. Somebody ought to have gone along with him.”
That gave Phil an idea of his own. He took the cab and told the driver to follow the one ahead. Rather than have it seem that he was trailing somebody, Phil explained:
“A friend of mine. He isn’t feeling well, but he wouldn’t hear of my going to the station with him. I’m going anyway.”
It wasn’t just a good deed on Phil’s part. He wanted to see some of New York anyway. It happened that he was going to have that wish fulfilled. Both cabs did a lot of turning around corners and finally wheeled through a gateway composed of two great stone pillars.
“Your friend must be going to One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street,” announced Phil’s driver, gesturing ahead, “considering that his cab is going through the park. That’s the only station, the way he’s headed.”
Odd, thought Phil, that this should happen. Intrigued as well as puzzled, Phil kept his gaze glued to the cab ahead and therefore didn’t notice that a third such vehicle had fallen into the procession.