“Musha! musha!” gasped the Irish lad. “It’s a sure thing thot droiver manes to earn the other foive dollars.”
For Barney it was a somewhat exciting ride at first, as the street was filled with cars, carriages and trucks, each one of which seemed trying to get to some destination regardless of all the others. In and out, here and there, dodging in front of a car, narrowly missing the wheel of a truck, slinking through a narrow space between two heavy teams, turning to the right, turning to the left, on rattled the cab. The boys were thrown about as if they had been seated in a small boat that was at the mercy of an angry sea.
At length the streets were less obstructed, and the driver made greater speed. He wielded the whip mercilessly.
“This is fun aloive,” gasped Barney. “Oi’ll not hiv’ a whole bone in me body whin Oi git there.”
Frank said nothing, but looked at his watch, after which he nodded in a satisfied manner.
“Is it fast enough fer yez—we are going—Frankie?” asked Barney, with a bit of sarcasm in his voice.
“If it is only two miles to North Beach we will get there in less than fifteen minutes,” said Frank.
“But it’s did we may be whin we arroive, me b’y.”
Crack! crack! crack! sounded the driver’s whip, each snap being like the report of a pistol. Clatter! clatter! co-lat-ter! sounded the hoofs of the galloping horses.
“Oi’ve played football a little in me loife,” said Barney, as he picked himself up from the bottom of the cab, only to be thrown down again with greater violence, “but Oi’ll admit this takes th’ cake. Football is not in it, at all, at all.”