“Come in, boy,” he said to the taxi driver.
Harry got out of the front seat reluctantly.
“Don’t like to spare the time,” he began.
“Forget it,” replied the beefy-faced man. “Leave your meter running. This is on me.”
Together they entered the lunch wagon. A cry went up from two men seated there, and the cook waved his hand in recognition.
“English Johnny!”
The red-faced man laughed.
“They all call me that,” he said, “but you fellows know I ain’t an Englishman.”
“Perhaps not,” said one of the customers, “but you’ve got some English in you, and you sure look English.”
“English Johnny” turned to Harry Vincent.
“Sit down, bud,” he said, “and order up.”
Vincent called for a cup of coffee.
He listened to the conversation, but learned nothing except that the man they called English Johnny was well known and well liked.
“When did you get back, Johnny?” came a question.
“Tonight.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Well, I usually pick a downtown hotel, but I ain’t registered yet. Just came in from a trip, you know.”
“Starting any more wagons?”
“Expect to, soon.”
The talk drifted a bit. Harry had finished his coffee. The beefy-faced man had gulped down two sandwiches and had swallowed a cupful of tea. He rose and walked to the door, with Harry following.
As they neared the cab, another taxi drew up, and the driver alighted.
“Hello, English Johnny,” the driver called.
“Hello, boy.”
The driver gazed curiously at Harry Vincent, but said nothing. Harry felt rather ill at ease. Perhaps he should greet this other man.
English Johnny detected the glance of the newcomer, but the taxi driver was evidently a mere acquaintance, and not a friend. Harry climbed into the cab and held the door open for English Johnny.
They rolled beneath the elevated. Harry stepped on the accelerator. It would be best to deliver the man in back before any trouble might arise. The street was virtually deserted; this was a time for speed.
He went past a corner. English Johnny whistled at him. Harry slowed down.
“Where you taking me, fellow?” asked the beefy-faced man. “This ain’t the shortest way. Cut over to the left. Don’t you know your New York?”
“Not all of it, sir.”
“Looks like you don’t know none of it.”
Harry swung to the left; as he did so, a passing car honked warningly. There followed the grinding of brakes, and the other automobile narrowly missed a collision with one of the elevated posts.
An oath issued from the other car. Its driver stepped from one door and a policeman from the other. Harry was stopped in the middle of the street.
“What’s the idea?” demanded the policeman.
“Just turning left,” said Vincent.
“Where was your hand?”
“I had it out,” answered Harry truthfully.
The officer turned to his companion.
“Did you see him put his hand out?”
“No,” said the other man. “I’m glad I was giving you a lift, officer. You can see what we drivers are up against. These taxis think they own the streets. Why don’t you run him in?”
The policeman glowered at Vincent. He looked as though he was sorry there had not been an accident. He seemed to be after an excuse to make an arrest.
“Get out your driver’s license,” he said. “Show me your certificates.”
Vincent fumbled in the pocket of his uniform. He half expected to find the credentials there. Then he realized that he would be unable to sign properly - doubtless the officer would require that.
This was something that had not been anticipated; evidently no provision had been made for it. The pocket was empty.
“One chance in a million,” thought Vincent. “One chance that I would run into a mess like this.”
The policeman was opening the back door of the car.
“Let’s take a look at your mug back here,” Vincent heard him say.
“Do you mean me?” came the voice of English Johnny.
“No. I mean the picture of this bum driver you have up back of the front seat. But I’ll look you over, too, if you want. What’s your name?”
“Well,” came the reply, “my name’s Harmon; but most of the boys know me by the title of English Johnny.”
The policeman looked up.
“English Johnny!”
“Sure.”
“The fellow that owns the lunch wagons?”
“The same one. I know some big men on the force, too.”
“I’ve heard that. Say, what’ll I do with this driver you’ve got here?”
“Let him take me out to my place, first. He’s been long enough getting me there.”
The officer laughed.
“Drive along,” he said to Harry. “This gentleman wants to get home.”
“What about running him in?” asked the man from the other car.
“Forget it,” said the policeman.
Vincent put the car in gear and drove hurriedly away. The interruption of English Johnny had been fortunate. He hoped there would be no more complications.
Just then another whistle from the back seat broke in on Harry’s thoughts.
“Pull up by the curb here,” came the voice of his passenger. Harry obeyed the order.
English Johnny stepped out of the door - he had ordered Harry to the left side of the street - now he looked sharply at the driver of the cab, whose face was clearly visible beneath the light of a street lamp.
“Listen here, fellow,” demanded English Johnny, “are you trying to give me the run-around?”
“No, sir,” replied Vincent.
“It looks like you were.”
“Why?”
“Because you talk like you know the streets, and yet you’ve been getting mixed up every few blocks.”
Vincent decided that a taxi driver would answer this sort of talk with some emphatic statements of his own. So he tried it.
“Maybe I know the streets better than you,” he growled in a sullen voice. “I’m driving the cab. I know my business.”
“Maybe you’re all right,” replied English Johnny, as though half convinced. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“I’m all right.”
“Well, you kinda got into trouble back there at the elevated.”
“That’s all in the day’s work. Every cab driver runs into mix-ups like that.”
“Well, you acted kinda funny. Then, when you got lost again, I thought I’d better see what it was all about. I ain’t trusting myself with no half-drunk taxi driver.”
“I haven’t been drinking.”
