"I am grabbing you!" Toffee cried, renewing her efforts on his shoulder. "Hang on to something!"
Marc bent forward and took hold of the wheel. The action threw him into a curious doubled-up position, so that he seemed to have braced himself against the device with his knees so that he might pull at it with both hands. To the casual passerby on the sidewalk it presented a rather intriguing problem in logic. A pair of shop-girls turned away from a window, started away, then stopped to observe the activity in the convertible with baffled interest.
"Why do you suppose he's so anxious to get that wheel off?" one asked, turning to the other.
"I can't imagine," the second said thoughtfully. "He seems terribly mad about something, though. I pity his girl friend."
"I should say. I wouldn't go out with a fellow with that kind of temper for a million dollars."
Meanwhile the state of affairs in the convertible was swiftly becoming crucial. Marc was beginning to realize that the upward pull on his body was even stronger than before.
"Don't let me go!" he told Toffee. "Out here, it'll be the end of me!"
Then suddenly both he and Toffee looked around as a cough of expectancy issued ominously from the back seat. Before their apprehensive eyes a heavy flashlight swiftly raised itself from the floor of the car and darted menacingly forward. A chuckle of malevolent intent sullied the charged silence in the car.
"Go away!" Marc yelled. "Beat it, you homicidal haunt! George!"