Too late. The car's stopped. I'll have to get on. The conductor looks impatient.
"Impatient," he says. "You'll be massacred!"
Oh, oh. Everybody's climbing from the street-car, looking angry at me. Kelly and Grogan and Tompkins and the others. I guess there'll be a fight.
The captain's voice stabs my ears, but I don't see him anywhere:
"Use your r-gun, your blaster, your blaster. Hell, use your slingshot, or throw spitballs, or whatever the devil you imagine you got holstered there, but use it! Come on, men, about face and back!"
I'm outnumbered. I bet they'll gang me and give me the bumps, the bumps, the bumps. I bet they'll truss me to a maple tree, maple tree, maple tree and tickle me. I bet they'll ink-tattoo their initials on my forehead. Mother won't like this.
The captain's voice opens up louder, driving nearer:
"And Poppa ain't happy! Get outa there, Halloway!"
They're hitting me, sir! We're battling!
"Keep it up, Halloway!"