Gallegher turned his head, and though he saw that the voice came from under a policeman’s helmet, his only answer was to hit his horse sharply over the head with his whip and to urge it into a gallop.

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.  I’m Cronin’s son.  McGovern ain’t in no condition to drive.  You can see yourself how he’s been misusing the horse.  He puts it up at Bachman’s livery stable, and I was just going around there now.”

Gallegher’s knowledge of the local celebrities of the district confused the zealous officer of the peace.  He surveyed the boy with a steady stare that would have distressed a less skilful liar, but Gallegher only shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if from the cold, and waited with apparent indifference to what the officer would say next.

In reality his heart was beating heavily against his side, and he felt that if he was kept on a strain much longer he would give way and break down.  A second snow-covered form emerged suddenly from the shadow of the houses.

“What is it, Reeder?” it asked.

“Oh, nothing much,” replied the first officer.  “This kid hadn’t any lamps lit, so I called to him to stop and he didn’t do it, so I whistled to you.  It’s all right, though.  He’s just taking it round to Bachman’s.  Go ahead,” he added, sulkily.

“Get up!” chirped Gallegher.  “Good-night,” he added, over his shoulder.

Gallegher gave an hysterical little gasp of relief as he trotted away from the two policemen, and poured bitter maledictions on their heads for two meddling fools as he went.

“They might as well kill a man as scare him to death,” he said, with an attempt to get back to his customary flippancy.  But the effort was somewhat pitiful, and he felt guiltily conscious that a salt, warm tear was creeping slowly down his face, and that a lump that would not keep down was rising in his throat.