“Then, he’s doubled back,” he cried. “He’s gone to New Haven.” He stooped and threw in the clutch. The car lurched forward.
A cold terror swept young Van Vorst.
“What do you want with him?” he called. “Who are you?”
Over one shoulder the masked face glared at him. Above the roar of the car the words of the driver were flung back.
“We’re Secret Service from Washington,” he shouted. “He’s from their embassy. He’s a German spy!”
Leaping and throbbing at sixty miles an hour, the car vanished in a curtain of white, whirling dust.
GALLEGHER
A NEWSPAPER STORY
We had had so many office-boys before Gallegher came among us that they had begun to lose the characteristics of individuals, and became merged in a composite photograph of small boys, to whom we applied the generic title of “Here, you”; or “You, boy.”