They said they knew the cab was McGovern's, and they wanted to know
where he was, and why he wasn't on it; they wanted to know where
Gallegher had stolen it, and why he had been such a fool as to drive
it into the arms of its owner's friends; they said that it was about
time that a cab-driver could get off his box to take a drink without
having his cab run away with, and some of them called loudly for a
policeman to take the young thief in charge.
Gallegher felt as if he had been suddenly dragged into consciousness
out of a bad dream, and stood for a second like a half-awakened
somnambulist.
They had stopped the cab under an electric light, and its glare shone
coldly down upon the trampled snow and the faces of the men around
him.
Gallegher bent forward, and lashed savagely at the horse with his
whip.
"Let me go," he shouted, as he tugged impotently at the reins. "Let me
go, I tell you. I haven't stole no cab, and you've got no right to
stop me. I only want to take it to the _Press_ office," he begged.
"They'll send it back to you all right. They'll pay you for the trip.
I'm not running away with it. The driver's got the collar--he's
'rested--and I'm only a-going to the _Press_ office.
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