The resort was reached, and the return made, in a tiresomely unexciting manner. On the second trip out, a crowd had gathered near the turn by the switching yards, which shouted epithets at the green crew.
"They're a bunch uh mouthin' blackguards, mate," the cheek-scarred guard on the front platform observed with alcoholic familiarity. He dodged a spattering tomato flung jeeringly by a tiny Irishwoman. "All they does is shoot off their mouth."
Pelham found the guard's nearness the main irritation of the ride.
When they neared the same corner on the run in, two women stepped into the street. He slowed the car. They suddenly turned back to the sidewalk. He urged the speed up two notches.
A wagon had been backed across the track. "Clear that off, there." The driver was evidently too asleep, or drunk, to heed.
"You move it," he ordered the guard.
As the man stepped down uneasily, the rush began. Out of the cheap lodging houses and dingy side entrances flooded shouting men, women, children. Bricks, garbage, old bottles thumped against the car sides.
"Better not stop, Judson," the green conductor's shout reached him. "It'll be hot in a minute."
The guard struggled with the heads of the horses. A whirling broom-handle from the sidewalk knocked him against the wheels. He let go the bits, uncertainly.
"Kill the dam' scabs!"