“I reckon he never will again,” the reporter laughed.
The hall opened on a narrow, circular iron staircase, without a single light. Down this pit Brainard and the reporter plunged, tugging at the trunk, which threatened to stick at every turn. The old man got on more easily with the bag, which he merely allowed to slide after him. Brainard was soaked in perspiration; the reporter puffed and swore, but he stuck manfully at his job.
At last they tumbled out into the dark alley at the rear of the building. After he had caught his breath, Brainard inquired where he could find a cab.
“If I were you, young man,” the reporter replied, “I wouldn’t try being a swell. I’d take the first rig I could charter. There’s one over there now.”
He pointed down the alley, and waded off into the dark. Presently he returned with a plumber’s wagon.
“He says he’ll land your baggage at the ferry for four bits. You can ride or walk behind, just as you like.”
They loaded the trunk and the bag into the wagon, and the reporter, perching himself beside the driver, announced genially:
“I’ll see you aboard!”
“How much time is there left?” Brainard asked.
“Thirty-two minutes—you can do it easily in twenty-five.”