“Gimme some room!” you plead. “I only got about an inch!”
They hitch along, and cede you another inch.
“Clea-ear the track!”
You bend and push. The bob starts. It gathers way. One concluding effort, and you land aboard just as it is outstripping you; and kneeling upon your scant two inches, hanging for dear life to the shoulders of the boy in front of you, are embarked for your rapturous yet excruciating flight.
With lurch and leap, with whoop and cheer, down zips the bob, every lad clutching his neighbor as he may, each cemented to each—but you, out in the cold, clutching most desperately of all.
“I’m fallin’ off!” you announce wildly.
The two inches are only one and a half.
“Jocko’s fallin’ off!”
How delightful—for the others! The news of your lingering predicament is received with hoots of wicked glee.
Around the curve, with everybody leaning, and the rear sled slewing outward whilst you balance on its extreme edge. Going—