"Hully gee!" cried the boy, ecstatically. "She found him, eh? Well, who'd a-t'ought it, an' me lookin' fer him tree hours. Where did she find him, officer? His name's Mike--named after me old man's boss what bites nails." "We found him in the park in company with a disreputable friend," said Gladwin. "A yaller mut?" asked the boy, with a contemptuous emphasis on the _mut_. "Dat's the janitor's dog an' he's nottin' but a tramp. I wisht he'd fall in de river an' get et by a catfish." "I wouldn't wish him all that hard luck," laughed Gladwin, "for he had a large bone he was sharing with Mike. I was watching them over the park wall when May came along. I sent them all, and the bone, home in a taxicab." "In a which?" ejaculated the boy, while his eyes popped. "In a taxi," said Gladwin, lightly. "Aw, say," and the little chap's jaw fell, "now I know you're kiddin'. Where'd May git the price of a taxi, an'"---- "Oh, I arranged all that," the uniformed mystery explained reassuringly, "and if you'd like I'll call one for you. You look pretty tired. I guess you've walked a good many miles on the trail of Mike." The youngster tried to speak, but could not. The very thought of a ride in a taxicab froze his brain. Gladwin took him by the hand and led him to the curb. "Now, would you prefer a yellow or a red one?" he asked. "There's all kinds going by." "Yaller," cried the boy. "I likes them best." They had only a moment to wait, when one of the mystic yellow hue cruised round a corner and came toward them. Gladwin hailed it and the chauffeur stopped with a wondering look at the pair. Gladwin had a bill ready in his hand and passed it up to the chauffeur. "Take this boy over to No. 287 East Eightieth street," commanded Gladwin, "and whatever you've got left out of the tenspot above what the meter registers, split the change with the boy. And as for you son, patting the urchin on the head, you keep your eye peeled on the meter." "Gee! Will I?" responded the boy, and as Gladwin opened the door he hopped in and took up a perch where he could best observe the fascinating operations of the register. The chauffeur, a bullet-headed, cross-eyed individual, squinted at the bill half a dozen times before he stowed it away in his pocket and set the meter. Then he made a swift, fierce scrutiny of Travers Gladwin's face, shook his head, swallowed a mouthful of oaths, threw in the clutch and spurted diagonally for the cross street. As he vanished, the uniformed similitude of Officer 666 consulted his watch, made out that it was almost 10.30 and strode rapidly in the direction of his home. He wore a smile that was fairly refulgent. "Wouldn't have missed this night patrol for a hundred thousand," he said inwardly--"and they say that the life of a patrolman is a monotonous drudgery."