“Pass the word back,” Willie whispered. “Tell them to get a good grip on the fellow’s shoulders just ahead and then shove. Flying wedge. See?”
Florence passed the word back. Next instant, urged on by a great push from behind, she sent her solid one hundred and sixty pounds against Willie’s back.
It worked. They moved forward. A foot, two feet, three, four, five, ten.
“I’ll get her!” Willie hissed. “You’ll see!”
She might have heard. Perhaps she did. She turned half about. No matter now, for, just as Willie’s outstretched hand all but touched her, a second flying wedge composed of college boys struck their line at the very center. The result was rout and confusion. Like beads when the string is broken, our friends were scattered far and wide.
And where was the lady spy?
For a space of time, no one knew. Then Willie spotted her, farther away and moving rapidly.
After that things happened so fast that even to Florence’s keen mind they remain a blur. Willie sprang forward. A cleared space just before him was closed as if by magic. Four policemen and a score of revelers closed it. There came the sound of thwacking clubs. Willie tripped and fell. He was up on the instant, but minus his hat. No matter. Someone jammed a hat on his head. Whose hat? He did not know or care. But for the instant after that he cared a lot. It was a policeman’s hat. He wore a dark blue suit. In the crush he was mistaken for an officer.
He had just sighted the dark lady once more when three strong men seized him, lifted him on high, lunged forward, then tipped him neatly over the rail. As he shot down, down, down to the icy waters of the lagoon, the crowd let out a roar of approval.
“Crowds,” he grumbled as he swam for the shore, “psychological mobs never have any sense of humor.”