“We go underground to the station,” Bill Gregg explained.  He was a little startled himself, but his reading had fortified him to a certain extent.

“But is there still some more of New York?” asked Ronicky humbly.

“More?  We ain’t seen a corner of it!” Bill’s superior information made him swell like a frog in the sun.  “This is kinder near One Hundredth Street where we dived down.  New York keeps right on to First Street, and then it has a lot more streets below that.  But that’s just the Island of Manhattan.  All around there’s a lot more.  Manhattan is mostly where they work.  They live other places.”

It was not very long before the train slowed down to make Grand Central Station.  On the long platform Ronicky surrendered his suit case to the first porter.  Bill Gregg was much alarmed.  “What’d you do that for?” he asked, securing a stronger hold on his own valise and brushing aside two or three red caps.

“He asked me for it,” explained Ronicky.  “I wasn’t none too set on giving it to him to carry, but I hated to hurt his feelings.  Besides, they’re all done up in uniforms.  Maybe this is their job.”

“But suppose that feller got away out of sight, what would you do?  Your brand-new pair of Colts is lying away in it!”

“He won’t get out of sight none,” Ronicky assured his friend grimly.  “I got another Colt with me, and, no matter how fast he runs, a forty-five slug can run a pile faster.  But come on, Bill.  The word in this town seems to be to keep right on moving.”

They passed under an immense, brightly lighted vault and then wriggled through the crowds in pursuit of the astonishingly agile porter.  So they came out of the big station to Forty-second Street, where they found themselves confronted by a taxi driver and the question:  “Where?”

“I dunno,” said Ronicky to Bill.  “Your reading tell you anything about the hotels in this here town?”

“Not a thing,” said Bill, “because I never figured that I’d be fool enough to come this far away from my home diggings.  But here I am, and we don’t know nothing.”

“Listen, partner,” said Ronicky to the driver.  “Where’s a fair-to-medium place to stop at?”

The taxi driver swallowed a smile that left a twinkle about his eyes which nothing could remove.  “What kind of a place?  Anywhere from fifty cents to fifty bucks a night.”

“Fifty dollars!” exclaimed Bill Gregg.  “Can you lay over that, Ronicky?  Our wad won’t last a week.”

“Say, pal,” said the taxi driver, becoming suddenly friendly, “I can fix you up.  I know a neat little joint where you’ll be as snug as you want.  They’ll stick you about one-fifty per, but you can’t beat that price in this town and keep clean.”

“Take us there,” said Bill Gregg, and they climbed into the machine.

The taxi turned around, shot down Park Avenue, darted aside into the darker streets to the east of the district and came suddenly to a halt.