"That is the man that drove us out to Harlem last night," I answered.
"What's your number?" demanded Mr. Loraine of the surly brute.
The hackman looked at him. The New York merchant was no tyro, and Jehu, preferring not to deal with one who understood the characteristics of his class, suddenly bolted through the open door, and ran for his hack. Mr. Loraine pursued him; but the rascal had left his carriage on the Bowling Green side of the street, and he distanced both of us. Leaping upon his box, he drove off as fast as his horses could go.
"Didn't you notice the number of his hack?" asked Mr. Loraine, as we returned to the hotel.
"I did not, sir."
"What did he want of you?"
"He wished me to pay him ten dollars for driving Kate and me out to Harlem last night," I replied, laughing.
"It did not take you long to give him an answer to such a demand."
"I wanted to know why Tom Thornton had not paid him. It seems that the scoundrel, when he found his employer was hurt, was afraid of getting into trouble, and left him. I put my hand into my pocket, as though I intended to pay him, so as to induce him to tell me what I wanted to know."
"You'll do!" added Mr. Loraine, smiling. "But what did become of Thornton?"