This, on his part, was followed by a sharp, shrill whistle from the
policeman. Another whistle answered it from a street-corner one block
ahead of him. "Whoa," said Gallegher, pulling on the reins. "There's
one too many of them," he added, in apologetic explanation. The horse
stopped, and stood, breathing heavily, with great clouds of steam
rising from its flanks.
"Why in hell didn't you stop when I told you to?" demanded the voice,
now close at the cab's side.
"I didn't hear you," returned Gallegher, sweetly. "But I heard you
whistle, and I heard your partner whistle, and I thought maybe it was
me you wanted to speak to, so I just stopped."
"You heard me well enough. Why aren't your lights lit?" demanded the
voice.
"Should I have 'em lit?" asked Gallegher, bending over and regarding
them with sudden interest.
"You know you should, and if you don't, you've no right to be driving
that cab. I don't believe you're the regular driver, anyway. Where'd
you get it?"
"It ain't my cab, of course," said Gallegher, with an easy laugh.
"It's Luke McGovern's. He left it outside Cronin's while he went in to
get a drink, and he took too much, and me father told me to drive it
round to the stable for him.
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