The fat young man reached the front platform. He was not only fat. He was also very strong.
“Here, let me run this old shebang?” he asked Jimmie. “I won’t kill anybody.”
“Well, we’re in the open now,” said Jimmie. “I guess you can’t do much damage.” So he gave him the controller and joined the vocalists.
Minutes passed by to the lilt and swing of such grand old classics as The Bulldog and the Bullfrog, and the rest of it, with xylophone accompaniment, accomplished by drawing a cane across the rods in the backs of the seats.
Never had happiness so untrammeled an occupancy. Number 809 spread her long wheels in the ecstasy of freedom. Her motors purred. She passed the high points with loving pats, scarcely touching them. Her inhabitants were carried away.
And then, like a handful of mud upon the merriment fell the roar of the man at the controller. He was grinding frantically at the brake. The huge muscles of his back had split his coat in the effort.
The party got up and saw ahead of them a sharp incline, ending in an unprotected bridge.
“Gee-rusalem!” bawled Jimmie suddenly. “Wood’s Bridge—the worst in the country. I forgot it.”
At that instant a crack, followed by the jingle of metal, told them that the brake-chain was broken. The car, which had slacked a little of its speed, leaped forward again.
“Turn off your power! Reverse, I mean!” yelled Jimmie.