And while he was about it, he took time briefly to offer up thanks that the shock of his wound seemed to have sobered the boy completely.
Opening the door, he craned his neck out to establish communication with the ear of the chauffeur; to whom he repeated the address, adding an admonition to avoid the Monastery until certain he had shaken off pursuit, if any; and dodged back.
At this juncture the taxicab was slipping busily up Eighth Avenue, having gained that thoroughfare via Forty-first Street. A little later it turned eastwards....
"No better, I presume?" P. Sybarite enquired.
"Not so's you'd notice it," the boy returned bravely.... "First time anything like this ever happened to me," he went on. "Funny sensation—precisely as if somebody had lammed me for a home run—with a steel girder for a bat ..."
"Must be tough!" said P. Sybarite blankly, experiencing a qualm at the thought of a soft-nosed bullet mushrooming through living flesh.
"Guess I can stand it.... Where are we?"
P. Sybarite took observations."
"Forty-seventh, near Sixth Avenue," he reported finally.
"Good: we'll be home in five minutes."