On the rear platform of the street car I looked through the glass. There were only eight or ten people aboard.
“There was a great big fellow got on at Hyde Street,” I said to the conductor. “Where’d he get off?”
The conductor looked at the silver dollar I was turning over in my fingers and remembered that the big man got off at Taylor Street. That won the silver dollar.
I dropped off as the street car turned into Market Street. The taxi, close behind, slowed down, and its door swung open.
“Sixth and Mission,” I said as I hopped in.
McCloor could have gone in any direction from Taylor Street. I had to guess. The best guess seemed to be that he would make for the other side of Market Street.
It was fairly dark by now. We had to go down to Fifth Street to get off Market, then over to Mission, and back up to Sixth. We got to Sixth Street without seeing McCloor. I couldn’t see him on Sixth Street—either way from the crossing.
“On up to Ninth,” I ordered, and while we rode told the driver what kind of man I was looking for.
We arrived at Ninth Street. No McCloor. I cursed and pushed my brains around.
The big man was a yegg. San Francisco was on fire for him. The yegg instinct would be to use a rattler to get away from trouble. The freight yards were in this end of town. Maybe he would be shifty enough to lie low instead of trying to powder. In that case, he probably hadn’t crossed Market Street at all. If he stuck, there would still be a chance of picking