board he'd
been down on the floor, clawin' the mat. Twice we scraped fenders with
passin' cars, and you could have traced every turn we made by the wheel
paint we left on the curb corners. It was a game of gasoline
cross-tag. We wasn't merely rollin'; we was one-stepping fox-trottin',
with a few Loupovka motions thrown in for variety. And, at that,
Auntie was holdin' the lead.

Down at Fifty-ninth, what does her driver do but swing into Fifth
Avenue, right in the thick of it. That was no bonehead play either,
for if there's any one stretch in town where you can let out absolutely
reckless and get a medal for it, that's the place. Course, you got to
take it in short spurts when you get the "go" signal, and that's what
he was doin'. I watched him wipe both ends of a green motor bus and
squeeze into a space that didn't look big enough for a baby carriage.

"Auntie must be biddin' up on the results, too," I remarks to Mr.
Ellins. "There they duck through Forty-third."

"Try Forty-fourth," sings out Old Hickory. "In here!"

It was a poor guess, for when we hits Sixth Avenue there's no yellow
taxi in sight.

"Wouldn't Auntie's game be to double back home?" I suggests.

"We'll see," says Old Hickory, and gives the order to beat it uptown
again.

And, sure enough, just as we gets in sight of the apartment house,
there's the other taxi, with Auntie haulin' Captain Killam out hasty.
Before we can dash up and pile out, they've disappeared in the
vestibule.

"Looks like we'd lost out by a nose," says I.

"Not yet," says Old Hickory. "I intend to see what those two mean by
this."

And after 'em we rushes.

But the one elevator was half way up when we fetches the gate. Old
Hickory puts his finger on the button and holds it there.

"They've stopped at the fourth," says I. "Now it'll be comin'-- No;
it's goin' all the way to the roof!"

There it stayed, too, although Old Hickory shoots some spicy commands
up the elevator well.

"No use; he's been bought," says I. "What's the matter with the
stairs? Only three flights."

"Good idea!" says Mr. Ellins; and up we starts.

He wouldn't break any stair-climbin' records in an amateur contest,
though, and when he does puff on to the last landin' he's purple behind
the ears and ain't got breath enough left to make any kind of speech.
So I tackles another interview with Helma.

"No," says she; "Meesus not coom yet."

"Ah, ditch the perjury stuff, Helma," sa