“Guess none of those society dames will have a thing on us, when it comes to rags,” Gid-up murmured to Gee-gee, as they crossed the platform with little teeny-weeny steps and headed toward a belated hack or two and Bob’s machine. That young man yet sat on the driver’s seat of the taxi; he was too paralyzed to move as he watched them approach. Where on earth were Gee-gee and Gid-up going? He feared to learn. He had an awful suspicion. “Chauffeur!” Gee-gee raised a begloved finger as she hailed Bob. The glove had seen better days, but Gee-gee didn’t bother much about gloves. When she had attained the finality in hats and the _ne plus ultra_ in skirts, hosiery and stilts (you asked for “shoes”) she hadn’t much time, or cash, left for gloves which were always about the same old thing over and over again, anyway. “Chauffeur!” repeated Gee-gee. “Meaning me?” inquired Bob in muffled tones. Why didn’t she take a hack? He had drawn up his taxi toward the dark end of the platform. “Yes, meaning you!” replied Gee-gee sharply. “Can’t say I see any other human spark-plug in this one-night burg.” “What can I do for you?” stammered Bob. He was glad it was so shadowy where he sat, and he devoutly hoped he would escape recognition. “What can he do? Did you hear that?” Gee-gee appealed indignantly to Gid-up. “I don’t suppose a great jink like you knows enough to get down and take a lady’s bag? Or, to open the door of the limousine?” “Well, you see this machine’s engaged,” mumbled Bob. “No, I don’t mean that.” Hastily. “I mean I’m not the driver of this car. It doesn’t belong to me. And that’s the truth.” “Where is the driver?” Haughtily. “Send for him at once.” Gee-gee did not like to be crossed. Gid-up was more good-natured; she only shifted her gum. “I can’t send for him,” said Bob drawing his hat down farther over his face. “He’s down the road.” “What’s he doing there?” “I don’t know. Maybe, he’s walking; maybe, he’s sitting in the ditch.” Gee-gee stared, but she could see only a big shadowy form; she couldn’t make out Bob’s features. “The boob’s got bees,” she confided to Gid-up, and then more imperatively: “Are you going to get off your perch and let us in?” “Beg to be excused,” muttered Bob. “Hack over there! Quick! Before some one else gets it.” That started them away. The teeny-weeny steps encompassed, accelerando, the distance between Bob and his old friend, the hackman who had laughed at what he supposed were Bob’s eccentricities. The hackman got down and hoisted in the grips. “Where to?” he said. Bob listened expectantly. He feared what was coming. “Mrs. Ralston’s,” answered Gee-gee haughtily. At the same time Gid-up threw away her gum. She would have to practise being without it.