“Well, I declare!”
Dave had run out into the street. Hiram kept pace with him, wondering what in the world it all meant. Suddenly Dave turned in his course. He made a sudden dash for the curb where several taxicabs stood. Reaching one, of these, he touched the arm of its chauffeur waiting for a fare.
“Quick,” spoke Dave, “follow that blue car.”
“Hey, hello, who are you?” challenged the men, staring at Dave vaguely.
“Oh, afraid of your fare?” retorted Dave. “Here, I’ve got over fifty dollars in my pocket book.”
“He’s Dave Dashaway,” put in Hiram, as if that meant everything. “He works for Mr. King—you know him?”
“That crowd is good enough for me,” at once announced the chauffeur. “Jump in. What’s your orders?”
Dave sprang into the tonneau. The marvelling Hiram followed his leader. He could not imagine what Dave was up to, but he had confidence enough in his associate to feel that Dave knew his business on every occasion.
“That blue car, the one that just left the curb,” began Dave, leaning over towards the chauffeur, who had touched the wheel promptly.
“Collins’ car, yes,” nodded the man.