Though he had seen him but on the one occasion, Greg had more confidence in Estuban than in any of the taxi-drivers, good fellows though they were. He much desired Estuban's help on the dangerous expedition he had planned, and waited for him as long as he dared. But one o'clock drew near without any sign of him, and in the end Greg had to go without him. He was in difficulties when it came to choosing a man in Estuban's place. They all wanted to go; each man loudly and shamelessly proclaimed his own superior qualities. Greg finally decided to take them all. It was possible he might need them, and if he did not, they could remain in concealment in the cab. He swore them by a mighty oath to obey him in the smallest particular. Meanwhile during the evening the old car had received a grooming like an athlete before his supreme race. From all the cabs in the yard the most nearly new tires were borrowed; every nut was screwed home, every wire tested. With black grease they smudged the license plates so that the numbers were illegible. Nor did they fail to test the extension ladder. Afterwards it was put back in its paper and tied on top of the flivver. On the way up-town all rode inside. The front window was allowed to remain down, so that Hickey could share in Greg's instructions and exhortations. While he talked to them Greg was sizing up his men. They showed their excitement in characteristic ways. Bull Tandy smoked deep, and there was a calm and delighted smile on his face; Blossom whistled incessantly through closed teeth; little Ginger twisted on his seat like a restless schoolboy. "I'll pick Bull for the closest work," thought Greg. When they got to the corner of Columbus Avenue and Eighty-third Street, Greg said to Hickey: "Drive all the way through the block and come back again, so that we can get a look over the whole ground." It was a long block down to Amsterdam Avenue, more than a furlong. A slight hill rose towards the middle of the block, and descended beyond. As Greg had expected the neighborhood was absolutely deserted, scarcely a light to be seen the whole way. Number 411 was near the beginning of the block, the Columbus Avenue end. All the windows were dark, but a dim light showed in the doorway, likewise in the doorway of the connecting house. Half-way through the block, that is to say, at the top of the little hill, they came upon a stationary figure, an officer, but one whose gray coat differed from the uniform of the city police. He was leaning back with his elbows propped on a stone post, one heel cocked up on a step, and his club dangling from its thong. The hearts of all went down at the sight. Uncomplimentary epithets were directed towards the innocent officer in the performance of his duty. "Damned unlucky!" muttered Greg.