Merry paused at the loop where the cars from Brooklyn swing in fast and thick during the rush-hours. He was looking for a certain car as he stood there near the many tracks. Gongs were clanging, newsboys shouting, people rushing hither and thither, and there was more or less confusion all about. Above, the bridge-cars rumbled and the Third Avenue elevated added to the uproar.
Of a sudden, as Frank stood there, somebody gave him a savage thrust.
Clang! clang! clang! sounded the gong of a car that was swinging round the loop.
There was a shriek from a woman who saw Frank hurled fairly in front of the car. The motorman tried to stop the car as quickly as possible, but he would have been too late had Merry fallen helpless in front of the trucks.
Frank had been flung forward headlong, with his right side toward the track. His hands went down, but they flung him back to his feet as if he had been made of wire springs. The car was right upon him, but like a flash he made a long leap that took him fairly beyond the track and out of the way.
“Somebody tried to do me!” he thought, as he darted round the rear end of the car, to discover who had pushed him.
“Where is the man?” he cried, as he dashed back to the spot where he had stood.
“There!” cried the woman who had uttered the shriek, pointing. “There he goes!”
A man was sprinting across the tracks, darting between the moving cars, flinging people aside when they blocked his path.
Merry sprang after the fellow, who vanished behind a car. A policeman clutched and held Frank, demanding: