"Hang on to the cans!" shouted the Circus Boy. "We are coming to a bad crosswalk!"
People paused on the street, not understanding what the mad pace meant. A policeman ran out and raised his stick. Teddy, who had hopped on behind at the last minute, not wishing to lose any of the fun, now stood up unsteadily, hanging to the driver's coat collar and nearly pulling that worthy from his seat.
They overhauled the first wagon from the canary car and passed it.
"Ye—ow!" howled Teddy as their wagon swept by. "This is a Wild
West outfit!"
The paste cans in the two wagons were dancing a jig by this time. Teddy suddenly lost his grip on the driver's collar, sitting down heavily on the nearest can. At that moment they struck the rough crossing, whereat Teddy shot up into the air, landing in a heap by the side of the road.
"Whoa!" commanded Phil, at the same time jumping on the can to keep it from following in the wake of Teddy.
"Go on!" howled Teddy, partially righting himself.
The driver urged his horses on and the team sprang away with loud snorts. But the rival wagon had taken a fresh start, and was drawing up on the Sparling outfit, the rear team, with lowered heads, appearing to be running away.
These horses struck the crosswalk with a mighty crash. The rear wheels slewed. The big can of paste was catapulted over a fence, narrowly missing Teddy Tucker's head as it shot over him. He flattened himself on the ground, but was up like a flash, sprinting out of harm's way.
There was reason for his last action. Other things were coming his way. As the wheels of the rival wagon slewed, they struck a gutter.