“I don’t, but you can find out from the number.”
“I’ve got that in my head, all right,” Patsy nodded. “I’ll look him up later.”
The motorman glanced at him again, and wondered at his interest in a car and persons whom he did not know or even their destination. He kept the trolley car moving rapidly, nevertheless, and, in spite of an occasional stop to drop or pick up passengers, he lost but little on the somber black touring car, the tail light of which gleamed like a sanguinary eye through the gloom in the near distance.
A mile run took them into the suburbs, beyond which was a stretch of almost open country, and Patsy then had the satisfaction of seeing that the trolley car was gaining on the other.
Through this open country and into a belt of woods the trolley car boomed on, and when nearly three miles out it sped over the brow of a hill, and Patsy quickly saw the lights of scattered dwellings amid clumps of trees in the distance.
“What place is that?” he inquired of the motorman.
“Only a small settlement. There’s a stone quarry over the hill on the left, and the workmen live in those houses. That one off to the right is in a side road running to Lakeville, where there’s pretty good fishing and gunning in the season. It’s a road house run by a man named Leary. I guess that’s where your buzz wagon is going. It’s taking that road.”
Patsy had an eye on it all the while, and saw that the time had come for him to leave the trolley car. He thanked the motorman again; then added:
“Slow down when near that road and let me drop off without stopping. I don’t want a certain party to hear the car stop. He might think he had been followed.”
“I’m on,” said the motorman, laughing. “You know your business, all right.”