Rake turned and pressed his nose against the front glass of the taxi. He turned as Fay reached and jerked down the blind.
“It’s Elsie De Groot!” he blurted. “It’s the dame of the garage!”
“Listen!”
A slight noise like a steam-exhaust sounded. Fay reached close by the seat. He pressed one knee against Yeader. He nodded comprehendingly.
“The air’s gettin’ thinner!” exclaimed Rake. “I can’t breathe!”
Fay dropped to his knees, swayed, and ran his hand over the bottom of the cab. He curled into a knot with his feet on the seat. He raised a hand and indicated for Rake and Yeader to bend down.
“We’re supposed to be dead!” he whispered. “There’s a suction pump on the engine that’s exhausting the air from the cab. The driver started the pump when she started the cab. The windows and framework are built to withstand enormous outside pressure.”
The taxi came to a sudden halt at a curb. The driver sprang from the front seat, mounted the running-board and pressed a pair of sharp eyes against the side glass. Fay, Rake and Yeader lay on the cab floor with their faces shielded by their up-thrown arms.
The driver swung into the seat, raced the engine, and clicked through the speeds. The taxi darted up Fifth Avenue. It gained Fifty-ninth Street and turned into the Park. It swung the dark curves on its swift passage uptown.