I
followed him, more leisurely, and then rode down in the infernal
jam in the subway to execute his commission.
Then for an hour or two I fidgeted impatiently in his office
waiting for him, until finally he came downtown in the racing car
which Warrington had placed at his disposal.
He said nothing, but it was all the same to me. I had reached that
nervous state where I craved something doing, as a drug-fiend
craves the dope that sets his brain on fire again.
I did not ask where he was going, for I knew it intuitively, and
it was not long before we were again in the part of the city where
the gangster's garage was located.
We stopped and Garrick beckoned to an urchin, a couple of blocks
below the garage.
"Do you want to make a dollar, kid?" he asked, jingling four
quarters enticingly.
The boy's eyes never left the fist that held the tempting bait.
"Betcherlife," he answered.
"Well, then," instructed Garrick, "take these newspapers. I don't
want you to sell any of them on the street.
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