Unlike the cop, the driver did not stop to argue. He threw in his clutch and stepped on the accelerator at once, and we whisked round a corner with a patrol wagon manned by excited cops and shrilling whistles so close behind that they could have reached out and touched us. Once in the straight we drew away from them fast, however. A moment later we turned into Broadway going south. “Go on,” urged Larry, “step on her, you —— ——” The patrol wagon turned into Broadway a full block behind us, shrilling and clanging madly. Fortunately we had joined and then passed some other cars, and the two traffic cops we passed had no idea which car to stop. The first one tried to stop us all, but our driver, with the fear of death on him, whisked round and past him. Of course the other cars stopped, blocking the road and effectually preventing the patrol wagon from passing either. The second cop merely stared. “Up a side street, quick!” I yelled to our driver. And as we turned out of Broadway I looked back to see the vibrating patrol wagon still trying to get past the jam. “Go over to Eighth,” I told the driver, “and then downtown to Broadway and on down to Times Square. Make it snappy. Here’s fifty dollars for yourself alone for this night’s work, and if they ever catch you, tell them that we are a desperate gang of thugs and threatened your life.” And I fell to laughing, and leaning over, stuffed the bills into his pocket. “But—but what’s it all about, sir?” asked the driver tremulously, over his shoulder. “It’s a mistake, lad, that’s all. But I can’t stop to straighten it out now, see? However, I don’t think any harm will come to you about it, even if they did get your number.” “But this afternoon——” “That was more of it,” I told him. “But I can’t explain it now. Drop us at Times Square and get back to the garage, and if you really want to help us out a little, tell the police, if they catch you, that you dropped us at the Grand Central.” The driver was silent at that, and nothing more was said until he slowed up alongside of the Times Building. Then he turned and leaned toward me. “Grand Central it is, sir,” he said. “I guess I know a gentleman when I see one.” But I wonder how much the fifty dollars had to do with his flattering opinion. Chapter XIII Our Second Burglary Larry and I went in one entrance to the Times Building and out the other. I led him across the street and into Seventh Avenue, turning south. Already I was beginning to have the feeling of a hunted criminal and to fear the bright lights. “Now then, Larry,” I explained, “they’ve seen us like this. And I think we’d better buy some different clothes. What do you think?” “That’s right, sor. It’s old clothes for us and maybe a couple o’ days’ beard—and lose these bags somewhere as soon as may be.”