and even the badly paved streets rang under the beats of his horse's
feet like music. Great mills and manufactories, with only a night-
watchman's light in the lowest of their many stories, began to take
the place of the gloomy farm-houses and gaunt trees that had startled
him with their grotesque shapes. He had been driving nearly an hour,
he calculated, and in that time the rain had changed to a wet snow,
that fell heavily and clung to whatever it touched. He passed block
after block of trim workmen's houses, as still and silent as the
sleepers within them, and at last he turned the horse's head into
Broad Street, the city's great thoroughfare, that stretches from its
one end to the other and cuts it evenly in two.

He was driving noiselessly over the snow and slush in the street, with
his thoughts bent only on the clock-face he wished so much to see,
when a hoarse voice challenged him from the sidewalk. "Hey, you, stop
there, hold up!" said the voice.

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.