"Beginning!" groaned Hickey. "I thought my work was done!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE HOLD-UP
Hickey took Greg to a restaurant on Third Avenue that to him represented the ne plus ultra in eating-places. It was called "Dick's" on its signboards, or "Greasy Dick's" in affection by its habitués. Whenever a restaurant gets a derisive nickname like this you may be sure it is a good one. Within there was a double row of mahogany tables end to against the side walls, leaving an aisle in the middle up and down which paraded the sociable waiters, who published each man's order to the kitchen in the voices of stentors. Greg and Hickey sat down together; elegantly dressed young gentleman and shabby owl-driver; and such was the democratic spirit of Dick's that none paid the least attention.
They ordered an extra double sirloin with onions, the most expensive dish the bill-of-fare afforded. It was a treat to hear the impressiveness with which the order was transmitted to the kitchen. On the way to the restaurant Greg had stopped at a stationer's to buy a map of Long Island, and while they waited for their meal he studied it.
"What's the program for to-night?" asked Hickey.
"Holding-up a dead-wagon," said Greg with an entirely serious air.
Hickey fell back in his seat aghast. "What!"
Greg laughed.
Hickey shrugged philosophically. "Oh well, you're the pilot," he said. "It's up to you. Remember I'm a nervous man, that's all."