The young woman thought, "What a nice chauffeur!" but she gasped: "Great heavens, you're hurt!"
"It's nuttin' but a scratch on me t'umb."
"Lend me a clean handkerchief, Harry."
The young man whipped out his reserve supply, and in a trice it was a bandage on the chauffeur's hand. The chauffeur decided that the young woman was even nicer than the young man. But he could not settle on a way to say to it. So he said nothing, and grinned sheepishly as he said it.
The young man named Harry was wondering how they were to proceed. He had already studied the region with dismay, when the girl resolved:
"We'll have to take another taxi, Harry."
"Yes, Marjorie, but we can't take it till we get it."
"You might wait here all night wit'out ketchin' a glimp' of one," the chauffeur ventured. "I come this way because you wanted me to take a short cut."
"It's the longest short cut I ever saw," the young man sighed, as he gazed this way and that.
The place of their shipwreck was so deserted that not even a crowd had gathered. The racket of the collision had not brought a single policeman. They were in a dead world of granite warehouses, wholesale stores and factories, all locked and forbidding, and full of silent gloom.