And as quickly as the thought struck him he leaned over, hooked his fingers in that iron anchor, and threw it off the right side of the wagon.
The twelve-pound weight hurtled through the air, whipped around a telephone pole, where it hung long enough to throw one of the horses almost a complete somersault, the wagon buckled sideways and upended on the sidewalk, while Rex Morgan described a parabola, landed on his hands and knees in the doorway of a clothing store, and ended up on his back, with his feet up the side of a counter.
And he stayed right there, trying to pump air into his lungs, while a white-faced clerk, quivering all over, leaned across the counter and looked down at Rex.
‘What do you want?’ he asked inanely.
‘What have you got?’ replied Rex. His right eye was fast swelling shut, and the knees of his trousers were busted wide open, exposing badly bruised knees.
A crowd had gathered, and men were trying to untangle the two horses, which were miraculously unhurt. Even the wagon did not seem any the worse for it; but the grocery orders were a sad jumble. A policeman came in and looked at Rex. Finally he helped Rex to his feet, growling deep in his throat.
‘Did the fuf-fire department catch me?’ panted Rex.
‘Were ye runnin’ away from the department?’
‘Yes.’
‘They tur-rned a half-block fr-rom where ye started, ye poor fool. Who told ye ye could dr-rive?’