Greg returned to his cab in high satisfaction. He had every reason to believe that the note would be delivered. Trust a New York hall-boy in matters of this kind! But even should it fall under other eyes, it could not but put them on a false track. "Now for a bang-up feed," said Greg to Hickey. "We need it, for there's a big night's work beginning." "_Beginning!_" groaned Hickey. "I thought my work was done!" CHAPTER VIII THE HOLD-UP Hickey took Greg to a restaurant on Third Avenue that to him represented the _ne plus ultra_ in eating-places. It was called "Dick's" on its signboards, or "Greasy Dick's" in affection by its habitués. Whenever a restaurant gets a derisive nickname like this you may be sure it is a good one. Within there was a double row of mahogany tables end to against the side walls, leaving an aisle in the middle up and down which paraded the sociable waiters, who published each man's order to the kitchen in the voices of stentors. Greg and Hickey sat down together; elegantly dressed young gentleman and shabby owl-driver; and such was the democratic spirit of Dick's that none paid the least attention. They ordered an extra double sirloin with onions, the most expensive dish the bill-of-fare afforded. It was a treat to hear the impressiveness with which the order was transmitted to the kitchen. On the way to the restaurant Greg had stopped at a stationer's to buy a map of Long Island, and while they waited for their meal he studied it. "What's the program for to-night?" asked Hickey. "Holding-up a dead-wagon," said Greg with an entirely serious air. Hickey fell back in his seat aghast. "What!" Greg laughed. Hickey shrugged philosophically. "Oh well, you're the pilot," he said. "It's up to you. Remember I'm a nervous man, that's all." With the point of a fork Greg indicated Silver Pond on the map. "There's our mark," said he. "We cross the Williamsburgh bridge and leave Long Island City by Van Buren Avenue. The rest is easy. The Crematory's not marked on the map but----" "What's a crematory?" interrupted Hickey. "Anythin' like a creamery?" "Not much like it," said Greg. "We'll go to the railway station and inquire from there. I suppose I ought to have a gun----" "Good God! what for?" "How can you pull off a hold-up without a gun?" "Then you mean it, a hold-up?" "Surest thing you know." "Lordy! Lordy!" murmured Hickey. "What a fellow you are! You'll have to attend to the gun-play yourself. I'm too nervous!" "I will. I don't mean to use it really, just flash it. We've got a little all-steel monkey-wrench that will give a perfect imitation of an automatic in the dark. That will do. We must fill up the flivver with gas, put in a quart of oil, and let down the top." "Why the top?" asked Hickey. "It's cold." "You'll see. We have to have sixty or seventy feet of rope too." "Is anybody going to be hanged?" asked Hickey with a shiver. "No. That's to stretch across the road."