“It’ll be forty soon,” said the boy, in great glee.
“One—two—three cars back, and another coming,” said the motorman. “If Bill Watson was here, he’d make that thing go.”
Considerably flustered at the commotion, George worked and perspired, but not being an expert made no progress at all. With an obstinacy that defied all his efforts, the motor refused to work, and Aleck, who had jumped to the ground, looked at him in dismay.
“What’s to be done?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” answered the other, blankly.
“Twenty-six and a half minutes late. I ain’t goin’ to stand this no longer,” growled the motorman.
“You ain’t standing it; the auto’s doing that,” remarked some one.
In spite of the rain, a great crowd jostled and surged around the stalled automobile. Seven cars stretched back in a line, and five wagons had stopped.
“Git your shoulders to the thing an’ push it over to the side,” commanded the motorman. “Never could see no sense in ’em, anyhow. Git out from under there, bub—I’m twenty-nine minutes late a’ready.”
“Make it thirty and be done with it,” grumbled the disgusted George, red in the face.