He jabbed at a pearl button until the private elevator floated up to him. He reached the street and turned toward the Avenue. He saw there a gray taxi. A young man sat on the driver’s seat. He was moving southward close by the right curb.
A swift sprint, a ducking lunge before the silver radiator of a polished limousine, a hasty reach for the wind-shield of the taxi, and a startled exclamation from the driver—these occurred within seven seconds.
“I’m going downtown,” said Fay, settling back in the front seat and staring boldly at the driver. “Don’t mind if I ride out here?”
“I certainly do! It’s against the company’s regulations.”
“Set the meter and drive on. I’ve really got something I want to say to you.”
“Well, of all the nerve!”
“Certainly—certainly! I’ve always been interested in this new company with the gray taxies and the paroled men who drive them. I’m a Western newspaper man—come from Chicago. Suppose you tell me all about the Gray Taxi Company. How many taxies are there? Who’s the originator? How’s business? Do you cover the steamship docks?”
“Say! On the dead, you’ve got nerve. I’m going to call the first traffic cop I meet. There’s one!”
Fay reached into his right-hand trouser pocket. His hand appeared with a five-dollar bill between his fingers.