Page:Restless Earth.djvu/77

shop-doorway, where he pretended to be interested in a display of bath-towels.

Harley hurried on, muttering to himself.

A lone taxi stood in Brougham Street. Its owner-driver, a stockily-built, happy-go-lucky individual, known to the town at large familiarly as “Roy,” upon whose head the conventional visored cap sat ridiculously, upon whose face shrapnel had designed a perpetual smile, and who earned a tenuous living because of his reputation for reckless driving, leaned against a verandah-post and conversed with a constable and a youth who straddled a bicycle.

His eyes lighted as he noted Harley’s approach.

“Here’s a chap who isn’t afraid to ride with me,” he said confidently. “My one reliable customer. What’s the betting?”

“I’d ride with you, Roy, if I had the chance,” declared the constable enviously.

“And pinch me for speeding—like you did before.”

Harley strode to the car and opened a door before the driver could reach it.

“Thank God, it’s you, Roy!” he said, as Roy hurried to his seat behind the wheel. “Napier! And burn the tyres off her!”

Roy waved a triumphant and somewhat derisive hand to the constable and released the brakes. The car slid down the hill, jerking forward as the engine started.

“Going over for one of the papers, Mr, Harley?”

“No.”

“Just going for some real atmosphere for another story?”

“No.”

Harley passed a shaking hand over his eyes as though to shut out the illumination on the dash.

Roy saw the action.

“Somebody over there?” he asked with quick sympathy.

Harley nodded.