A familiar figure ducked out of the cellar, surrounded by others,
and the crowd made for two taxicabs standing on the opposite side
of the street near a restaurant which was really not a tough joint
but made a play at catering to people from uptown who wanted a
taste of near-crime and did not know when they were being buncoed.
Another cab swung up to the stand, just as the first two pulled
away. Its sign was up: "Vacant."
Quick as a flash, Garrick was in it, dragging me after him. The
driver must have thought that we, too, were escaping, for he
needed only one order from Garrick to leap ahead in the wake of
the cabs which had already started.
A moment later, Garrick's head was out of the window. He had drawn
his revolver and was pegging away at the tires of the cabs ahead.
An answering shot came back to us. Meanwhile, a policeman at a
corner leaped on a passing trolley and urged the motorman to put
on the full power in a vain effort to pursue us as we swept by up
the broad avenue.
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