“Smash-up?” Townsend asked.
“I can’t see any, but there are men kind of going from one car to another. I guess it’s a hold-up, hey?”
“Wait a minute, I think I’ll come up there,” said Townsend. He had heard so much and Pee-wee’s accounts were so impulsive that perhaps he thought it wise to ascend himself. Perhaps he was a little curious to see the interior of that little aerial abode, the scene of one of the greatest battles in history.
At all events, he took off his coat, hung it on the woven wire spring nearby and started to shinny up the gate. But the gate which had held Scout Harris would not hold his larger companion. He had ascended perhaps six or seven feet, when it started to go down with an accompanying sound of squeaking gear wheels, disturbed after many years of slumber and accumulating rust.
“Going down, ladies’ millinery next floor,” said Townsend.
He was precipitated to the ground, the gate lying in a horizontal position above him, like a victorious wrestler, and blocking at least half of the road.
“Foiled,” he said cheerily, as he arose, brushing off his clothing with his hand.
“Foiled?” roared Pee-wee, in a voice of terrible accusation. “I’m the one that’s foiled! How am I going to get down?”
At this, Townsend saw fit to lie down on his back again and roar.
“How am I going to get down?” Pee-wee demanded in a voice of thunder.