Gibbon Street proved to be a little thoroughfare on the extreme ragged edge of Manhattan Island, a little backwater of the town passed by by the main currents. It was three blocks long with a bend in the middle. Down one side stretched a row of dilapidated little brick tenements occupied by freer spirits than the dense rookeries farther west; on the other side were lumber yards, coal yards and small manufactories. Greg had no difficulty in finding what he sought. Just at the bend in the street between two yards a little store bore the sign "Bickle's Grocery." It was a little aged two-story house with the mortar coming out from between the bricks. The store was surely one of the smallest in New York. Peeping through the window Greg saw a bewildering variety of objects displayed for sale. Besides the storekeeper there could hardly have been room for more than three customers at a time. Beside the store was a gateway and Greg went through here. The bend in the street made an irregularly shaped lot and it opened up unexpectedly behind. Around two sides of this yard was built an open shed providing stabling for half a dozen taxi-cabs or so. There were four cabs there at the moment, among which he instantly picked out his own. He knew her by her rakish list to starboard. His license number, by the way, which he had scarcely taken note of before, was T7011. The cab seemed to be all right, but this was the lesser half of his anxieties; where was its late driver? He looked inside half hoping to see a little figure curled up on the seat, but it was empty. A baritone voice hailed him from the back door of the little house, a voice with a "no-nonsense-now" ring: "Hey, fella, what do you want?" Greg beheld a fat woman with arms akimbo regarding him fiercely, a woman more than fat, mountainous. It was the kind of fat that goes with the highest degree of activity and energy; that massive forearm might have felled a prize-fighter. Moreover the honest, choleric blue eye proclaimed the tartar; it was the proprietress, no doubt, and a person to be propitiated. Greg approached her, cap in hand. She did not relent at all; on the contrary she seemed to find in his politeness an added cause for suspicion. "I'm the new Elmer Fishback," he announced. "I bought old T7011 from Hickey Meech last night. Here is the bill of sale he gave me." She looked over his papers with a sharp eye. "Do you want to stay on here?" she demanded. "If you please, ma'am." "My terms is the same to all. Dollar and a half a week in advance, with free water from the tap for washing. I serve meals to them that wants them at seven, twelve and six only. Regular fifteen cents; second helping a quarter. Beds twenty cents a sleep night or day." "That's reasonable," murmured Greg.