“Taxi, sir, taxi, Miss, take you anywhere—where to, Miss?” The women jumped in at once; he picked up two, going to the theatre. Would he call for them at eleven-thirty?
“With great pleasure,” answered Floyd. He helped them out, and stood with his hat in his hand. He forgot he was a chauffeur for a moment. Then he drove people uptown, downtown, all over town, guiding his car in and out of the great mass of congested traffic.
A young fellow rushed at him. “Drive for your life, my wife is dying.”
It was up in the Bronx. Floyd put on the speed. He got away from two policemen and landed at a brick house with the blinds lowered. The man dashed up the steps.
“Is she alive? Thank God!”
He threw Floyd a bill.
“You did well, my man, keep the change.”
Floyd felt like a public benefactor. Hacking was a noble profession.
He was hailed by two men who jumped in. He didn’t like them. He heard the pistol; looked into the butt of it. They gave him a street number outside the city limits.
“Drive like Hell!” He did. The men jumped out into a vacant lot. “Now cut away, and don’t squeal.”