Curses, groans, cries of pain and anger came from the interior as the player, battling against two unknown opponents, fought on. All three of the participants in the battle at forty miles an hour, were hampered by the smallness of the interior.
McCarthy strove to tear himself from the arms and legs that struck and kicked him, to get his head out of the window to raise the alarm.
Again and again he cried. Then suddenly the car lurched around a corner at a mad pace, tipping onto two wheels and skidding sickeningly. At that instant one of his assailants drove his feet against his body, and, as the car lurched wildly, McCarthy broke loose, grasped frantically for something to save himself, plunged from the machine, struck upon the asphalt of the side street into which the car had whirled, slid along it to the gutter and lay a huddled heap.
The car stopped quickly and whirled back to where he lay. The men leaped out, one cursing and frothing, the other urging silence and haste. Between them they lifted the half-conscious player and shoved him into the bottom of the car.
THE MEN LEAPED OUT
"Hurry up, Fred," urged the quiet man to the driver. "These fellows down at the corner are coming. Jump in, Jack."
They leaped back into the taxi, and the man called Jack said viciously:
"There—you, that'll teach you"—He kicked the prostrate player.