The starter looked startled. “Well!” said he. It was the only word in the English language that could express his feelings. “Well!” he said. He looked at the dollar, and in the tone of a man bewitched he cried, “Give him the bell, Tommie! You’re off!” Tommie pulled the strap. “Adoo! Fare thee well. Good-by. Ready!” he called. “If we don’t see you again, hello!” The starter waved his hand. The starter shook his head. Car 809 droned merrily along the track until she came to the first switch. “Give us the High Bush Line, Jerry,” said James. The melancholy man jabbed his iron into the track. High Bush, North Pole, Heaven or Hades, it was all one to him. “Come along,” he growled, and they came. “Hey, there! Hey!” cried an excitable old gentleman, as the car shot up the side-street switch. “I thought this car went through Lethe Street.” “It used to,” answered Tommie soothingly, “but it has got weary of it--plumb tired out.” “Tired?” cried the old gentleman blankly. “Here, let me out!” he concluded with energy. He stood on the crossing until a brewery-wagon was driven against him. “Lunatics--not a doubt of it,” he said to himself, as he hopped to the sidewalk. There he waited, but in vain, for no other car would be sent forth until 809 passed a certain turnout, which she had not the least intention of approaching this day. And that ruptured the schedule. A sour-faced young man with a fighting jaw approached the car a few blocks farther on. “Say! Do youse go through Scrabblegrass Avenoo?” he asked in a voice like a curse. “Now, that depends,” answered the blithe Thomas. “If we want to, we will; if we don’t, we won’t. D’yer feel like making it an object to us?” The sour-faced young man backed up a step. “Say, you are a pretty fresh duck, ain’t you?” he sneered. He quickly put on his most ferocious look. “Now, you listen to the toot of my little naughtyobilious horn,” said he; “and if you don’t I’ll mix you up with the machinery. I want to go to Scrabblegrass Avenoo. D’yer get that? The quicker I get there, the better. D’yer get that?” He pushed his bulldog jaw into Thomas’ face. “Shoo, fly!” said Thomas, making a light pass with his hand which caused a noisy rustle in the aftermath that grew upon the other man’s extensive face. “Sure!” he continued. “Sure. I get all these things, of course.” He stopped the car. He took the fighting-jawed man by the shoulder and pointed his finger at an angle of thirty-five degrees to the perpendicular and at right angles to the car track. “There is Scrabblegrass Avenoo, right over yonder,” he said. “Jump!” Sometimes a fighting jaw merely implies a fighting character: it doesn’t insist upon it. “D’yer mean I have got to walk?” asked the sour-faced man. “Sure thing,” said Tommie, “or else you’d like to have me kick you half-way there?” “Say, what’s got into you this mornin’?” gasped the stranger. It was Tommie’s turn to scoff. He reached for the strap, smiling derisively.