"You're right it's reasonable, times like these." She fixed him with a terrible eye. "There's one thing's got to be understood at the start. I says the same to every man that comes here. I'm a respectable woman and I won't stand for no crooked work, see? Your car is registered from this address, and if you get into trouble the police will come here for you. I won't stall them off. So it's up to you, see?" "I understand, ma'am," said Greg humbly. In spite of herself a twinkle lightened her grim glance. A long and no doubt disillusioning experience had made her suspicious of strangers, and there was much about Greg that remained to be explained; at the same time his clean youthfulness must have appealed to her after the tag ends of humanity she was accustomed to dealing with. She liked him and tried not to show it. Greg taking courage from the twinkle said: "I got into a bit of trouble last night--nothing crooked on my part, ma'am, but a gang in Ninth Street set on me and beat me up. A friend brought my cab in for me, a young boy; you didn't happen to see him, did you?" Bessie Bickle shook her head. "I sleep nights like a Christian," she said grimly. "That reminds me of something else. I don't hold myself responsible for anything left in the yard. All day I'm in and out my kitchen and I keep an eye out, but at night it's up to you. Most of the boys is out all night anyway, and when they're in they're gen'ally sleeping in their cabs. There's Blossom waked up. Ast him if he seen your friend." As Greg turned away from the door she called to him, still with the grim air that he soon learned she had adopted out of self-protection: "Say you, breakfast is over now, but come in to dinner on me. There's spare-ribs and cabbage." "Much obliged, ma'am," said Greg. He thanked the stars that had directed him to such a friendly soul in a selfish world. A man had shoved his car out of the shed and was preparing to wash it at the hydrant. Since the water was allowed to find its own sweet way out of the yard there was always a muddy hole in the middle--which did not lessen the labor of washing. Even now the man was cursing the mud. Greg had been struck by his name Blossom; but when he raised his head Greg saw that he who bore so poetic an appellation was no beauty. The "Blossom" was a brandy blossom perhaps, referring to his nose. He was a lean, exhausted-looking, morose individual. "H'are you?" said Greg affably. A grunt was the only reply. "How's business?" "Rotten!" "Bad weather for taxis." "Rotten!" "What's the matter? You seem a bit down on your luck." "Rotten!" declared Blossom, like a bird with one note. "I got a pain in me back and two flat tires; a fellow done me out of my fare last night. Everything is rotten!" "I'll help with the tires," said Greg. The morose one stared. "You're new," he said grimly. Greg nodded towards T7011. "My car," he said.