The cab moved swiftly on. Now they had reached the open country. An occasional wooden shack was passed, but that was all. At any moment the climax of the drama might be reached. Psmith’s muscles stiffened for a spring. There was little chance of its being effective, but at least it would be better to put up some kind of a fight. And he had a faint hope that the suddenness of his movement might upset the other’s aim. He was bound to be hit somewhere. That was certain. But quickness might save him to some extent.
He braced his leg against the back of the cab. In another moment he would have sprung; but just then the smooth speed of the cab changed to a series of jarring bumps, each more emphatic than the last. It slowed down, then came to a halt. One of the tyres had burst.
There was a thud, as the chauffeur jumped down. They heard him fumbling in the tool-box. Presently the body of the machine was raised slightly as he got to work with the jack.
It was about a minute later that somebody in the road outside spoke.
“Had a breakdown?” inquired the voice. Psmith recognised it. It was the voice of Kid Brady.
CHAPTER XXVII
PSMITH CONCLUDES HIS RIDE
The Kid, as he had stated to Psmith at their last interview that he intended to do, had begun his training for his match with Eddie Wood, at White Plains, a village distant but a few miles from New York. It was his practice to open a course of training with a little gentle road-work; and it was while jogging along the highway a couple of miles from his training-camp, in company with the two thick-necked gentlemen who acted as his sparring-partners, that he had come upon the broken-down taxi-cab.
If this had happened after his training had begun in real earnest, he would have averted his eyes from the spectacle, however alluring, and continued on his way without a pause. But now, as he had not yet settled down to genuine hard work, he felt justified in turning aside and looking into the matter. The fact that the chauffeur, who seemed to be a taciturn man, lacking the conversational graces, manifestly objected to an audience, deterred him not at all. One cannot have everything in this world, and the Kid and his attendant thick-necks were content to watch the process of mending the tyre, without demanding the additional joy of sparkling small-talk from the man in charge of the operations.
“Guy’s had a breakdown, sure,” said the first of the thick-necks.
“Surest thing you know,” agreed his colleague.
“Seems to me the tyre’s punctured,” said the Kid.
All three concentrated their gaze on the machine
“Kid’s right,” said thick-neck number one. “Guy’s been an’ bust a tyre.”
“Surest thing you know,” said thick-neck number two.
They observed the perspiring chauffeur in silence for a while.
“Wonder how he did that, now?” speculated the Kid.
“Guy ran over a nail, I guess,” said thick-neck number one.
“Surest thing you know,” said the other, who, while perhaps somewhat lacking in the matter of original thought, was a most useful fellow to have by one. A sort of Boswell.
“Did you run over a nail?” the Kid inquired of the chauffeur.
The chauffeur ignored the question.
“This is his busy day,” said the first thick-neck with satire. “Guy’s too full of work to talk to us.”
“Deaf, shouldn’t wonder,” surmised the Kid.
“Say, wonder what he’s doin’ with a taxi so far out of the city.”
“Some guy tells him to drive him out here, I guess. Say, it’ll cost him something, too. He’ll have to strip off a few from his roll to pay for this.”
Psmith, in the interior of the cab, glanced at Mr. Parker.
“You heard, Comrade Parker? He is right, I fancy. The bill–”
Mr. Parker dug viciously at him with the revolver.
“Keep quiet,” he whispered, “or you’ll get hurt.”
Psmith suspended his remarks.
Outside, the conversation had begun again.
“Pretty rich guy inside,” said the Kid, following up his companion’s train of thought. “I’m goin’ to rubber in at the window.”