“I’ll bet you this you don’t,” he said, pressing the bill into the driver’s lap. “Take it and buy a good dinner. There’s another coming to you if you answer my questions.”
The driver clutched the steering-wheel with both hands as he brought his knees together and pressed a leather toe upon the throttle. The taxi leaped by the traffic cop, dodged a bus and roared on down the Avenue until an open place was gained.
“Go slow,” said Fay. “Loaf along and let me get some dope for my article. Who owns the Gray Taxi Company?”
“James Ponsardin.”
“Proprietor of the morning Messenger?”
“Sure! He owns the company.”
“How many taxies?”
“Fifty running now.”
“Who manages it?”
“A girl!”