The Kid, as he had stated to Psmith at their last interview that he
intended to do, had begun his training for his match with Eddie
Wood, at White Plains, a village distant but a few miles from New
York. It was his practice to open a course of training with a
little gentle road-work; and it was while jogging along the highway
a couple of miles from his training-camp, in company with the two
thick-necked gentlemen who acted as his sparring-partners, that he
had come upon the broken-down taxi-cab.

If this had happened after his training had begun in real earnest,
he would have averted his eyes from the spectacle, however
alluring, and continued on his way without a pause. But now, as he
had not yet settled down to genuine hard work, he felt justified in
turning aside and looking into the matter. The fact that the
chauffeur, who seemed to be a taciturn man, lacking the
conversational graces, manifestly objected to an audience, deterred
him not at all. One cannot have everything in this world, and the
Kid and his attendant thick-necks were content to watch the process
of mending the tyre, without demanding the additional joy of
sparkling small-talk from the man in charge of the operations.

"Guy's had a breakdown, sure," said the first of the thick-necks.

"Surest thing you know," agreed his colleague.

"Seems to me the tyre's punctured," said the Kid.

All three concentrated their gaze on the machine

"Kid's right," said thick-neck number one. "Guy's been an' bust a