"Be hivens! I'd murdther thim for that," exclaims Riley, as he leaps to his box.
The two cabs proceeded at a smart pace down Fifth Avenue, but as the congested trucking district is reached progress becomes slower.
"Can you make the pier in time?" Mr. Felton asks the driver anxiously, consulting his watch for the dozenth time.
"Sure thing," is the confident response.
Neither the driver nor his passengers see the cab behind them. Riley has his reins grasped tightly in one hand, his whip in the other, and the expression on his round red face indicates that he is preparing for something out of the ordinary.
They have now reached lower West Broadway, and before Mr. Felton's driver knows it he has become entangled in a rapidly created blockade.
Progress now is snail-like. Mr. Felton becomes nervous, while Miss Hathaway finds much to interest her in the seemingly inextricable tangle of trucks, drays, horse cars, cabs, etc. Suddenly a space of a dozen feet or so opens before them, and the driver is about to take advantage of it when Riley gives his horse a cut with the whip and bumps by, nearly taking a wheel off the other cab.
Then ensues a duel of that picturesque profanity without which no truck blockade could possibly be disentangled.
Riley, who is ordinarily one of the most good-natured of mortals, becomes suddenly sensitive under the abuse heaped upon him and dragging the rival cabman from his box he proceeds to handle him in a manner that affords keen delight to the onlookers.
It is a snappy morning and Riley rather enjoys the exercise he is taking. But it is suddenly ended by a brace of policemen, who struggle upon the scene and pounce upon the combatants. Explanations are then in order and peace is restored. No one is arrested.
Riley is willing to break away, for as he looks around he notes with satisfaction that the blockade has increased
