The Owl Taxi. Footner Hulbert
of a drunken man? Perhaps he was not so drunk as he seemed. Greg thought "detective!" and his heart went slowly down into his boots. But surely this man with his inimitable air of breeding and his proud glance could not be a plain-clothes man. And anyway why should a detective want to take him to Jersey City? And if he were not a detective, what interest could he have in merely tormenting Greg. After a moment of sheer panic, Greg's spirits rose a little.
In his turn he began to wonder what errand a man of this kind could have across the river at such a time of night. That quarter is not usually thought of as the abode of aristocrats.
"Where to in Jersey City?" asked Greg.
"I'll tell you when we get there."
"I just asked because I don't know the town."
"Neither do I."
By this time they were at the ferry house. There was no boat in the slip and they had to wait outside for some minutes. When the gates were finally opened they were almost the first in line, but Greg's fare would not let him enter until all the express wagons, milk wagons, mail wagons and other late vehicles had gone in.
"Wait till the last! Wait till the last!" he said. "It's safer."
Greg laughed. "What do you mean, safer?" he asked.
"I wouldn't want to be caught in the middle of the boat if anything happened," the tall man said with the obstinacy of one in his condition. "Drive on last, and stay out on the back deck in the open. It's safer."
"There's nothing in that," said Greg.
"Well, you do what I tell you anyhow. I'm willing to pay for what I want. Here's five dollars on account."
Greg shrugged and took the money. He was sure then that he had the vagaries of a drunken man to deal with.
As his fare desired he let his taxi stand out on the after deck of the ferry-boat. As soon as she left her slip this part of the deck was deserted, for everybody else instinctively pressed up forward to be ready to land. Greg's fare lit a cigar of wonderful fragrance.
"This is nice," he said, taking his ease. "I don't like to be crowded on a boat."
But presently he underwent a feather-headed change of mood. "Let's stroll up to the bow so we can see where we're going," he said.
"But I thought you wanted to stay here," said Greg astonished.
"As long as the cab's here it's all right," he said with perfect inconsistency. "I didn't want to be penned up."
There was no making any sense out of this. Useless to argue with a man in his condition. "You go ahead," said Greg good-naturedly. "I'll stay with the cab."
"No, you come too," the other said with childish insistence. "I've got to have somebody to talk to. Mustn't be left alone."
Greg shrugged, and gave in.
The Twenty-third Street ferry to Jersey City is one of the longer routes, and the passage consumes upwards of twenty minutes. There were not many passengers at this hour—in the center of the deck a group of half a dozen drivers comparing notes, and at either side as many late commuters and Jersey citizens homeward bound. The overhanging bow of the ferry-boat trod the dark water remorselessly underfoot. On either hand it heaved in a silent tumult, like an agonized black breast. Along the shores the lights, yellow, red and green, sparkled with an incredible brightness, and over the center of Manhattan hung a dim radiance like the reflection of the embers of a burnt-out conflagration.
At Greg's elbow the tall man chattered on in the inconsequential way that accorded so ill with his aristocratic mask and falcon-like glance. "I hope the old boy's resting easily in the cab back there. He must be cramped lying on the floor." (So he had seen inside!) "Well, there's no accounting for taste in beds. You can't blame a man for taking a drop too much in weather like this. The dampness gnaws your bones. In my country the sun never forsakes us like this."
"What country is that?" asked Greg idly.
"Er—Peru," came the answer after a second's hesitation. He went on with his snigger: "I guess maybe I've had a drop or two too many myself. Two too many! English is a funny language! I had my first cocktail at five this afternoon—no, yesterday afternoon, and after dinner I seemed to lose count. Oh well, what's the difference! We only live once. I'll buy you a drink, cabby, when we land on the other side."
In the middle of all this he pulled himself up short and a great breath escaped him—was it of relief? For a moment his foolishness seemed to fall away. "Well, that's all right," he murmured.
"What did you say?" asked Greg curiously.
"Nothing." He resumed his chatter. Greg scarcely remarked the interruption, but he remembered it later; remembered too, that the man had been listening.
They returned to the cab. As they rolled out of the ferry house on the Jersey City side Greg said:
"Where to?"
His fare seemed to have become a little drunker. "Fellow told me you could get a drink in Jersey City any time you wanted. Said there was a place called Stack's over here. Something doing there all night. Stacks of liquor, stacks of fun—that's how I remembered the name. I forget the address. But it must be on the main street. Drive up a way and look for the sign."
Greg, reflecting that taxi-drivers had more to put up with than he had supposed, obediently drove quite a long way up the principal thoroughfare leading from the ferry. No "Stack's" appeared among the street signs. Greg's fare hummed snatches of a little Spanish song to himself, and did not appear to pay the slightest attention to the signs.
"Well, what do you want me to do?" asked Greg at last. "We seem to be coming to the outskirts now."
"Oh, ask a policeman," said the tall man foolishly.
Greg couldn't get rid of the feeling that he was being made game of. "What do you think I am!" he said. "If he did know such a place he couldn't give himself away by letting on. Very likely he'd want to run us in for asking."
"Oh well, let's go back to New York then. We've had a pleasant drive."
For a moment Greg forgot his role of the submissive cabman. "What the Hell——!" he began thoroughly exasperated.
"What do you care so long as you get your pay?" said the tall man unconcernedly.
Greg reflected that it did indeed make no difference, so he shrugged his shoulders once more, and turning, drove back to the ferry at a smart pace. He privately determined to charge this capricious fare double rates.
On the return trip the tall man evinced not the slightest concern as to where the taxi was put on the ferry. He had got over his talkativeness. He sat deep in thought, smoking one cigar after another. When they landed on the New York side he curtly ordered Greg to drive him to the Hotel Tours at One Hundred and Second Street and Broadway.
During the long drive to Eighth Avenue, to Columbus Circle, and up Broadway he scarcely spoke. He had apparently recovered from his drunkenness. The night air had cured him perhaps. As a natural result his spirits had sunk. Greg stealing curious side glances into his face as it was revealed in the light of the street lamps saw that his head was sunk on his chest, and that something grim and haggard and perhaps a little wistful had appeared in the handsome features. It suggested the face of a desperate gamester dreaming of the simple life.
Somewhere about Eightieth Street Greg's engine began to sputter. His fare was evidently an experienced automobilist.
"Gas running low?" he asked.
Greg nodded, and looked out for a garage. The first they came to was an open-air place in a vacant lot. A light was still burning in the little office, and Greg turned in. With a hail he brought a man out to the tank. He and his fare had to get out while the flivver was filled up. Afterwards the fare with true aristocratic carelessness handed Greg another bill and resumed his seat. Greg went back to the office with the man to get change. This was fifty feet or so behind the cab. It was dark in the