But their very anxiety was a serious bar to their rapid progress: and
the two machines were jammed together by the zealous rivals. Hard words
ensued, and a general row was the instant and legitimate result.
Quackenbush was complimented with a lick over the head with a trumpet,
in the hands of the frantic red-shirt-man, who accused him of locking
the tongue of 24-3/8 into 32-1/2's wheel. Dropper had his hat knocked
over his eyes, and thereupon, his indignation being roused, he hit out,
right and left. His first vigorous blow inflicted terrific damage upon
the amiable countenance of his best friend, Mr. Van Dam, and the very
first kick he gave upset Mr. John Spout upon the protruding stomach of a
man who had been knocked down with a spanner. John quickly recovered
himself, and hit Van Dam a clip in the sinister optic, which placed that
useful member in a state of temporary total eclipse. The battle became
general, and each man waged an indiscriminate war upon his neighbor.
Between the affectionate thrashing they gave each other, and the
indiscriminate kicks and punches they received from outsiders, the
Elephantines were well pommelled. By the time 32-1/2 and 24-3/8 had got
out of the muss, and were fairly on their way to the fire again, Mr.
John Spout was the only one of that fraternal band visible on his feet.
Dropper was doubled up across a hydrant, Van Dam was comfortably
reposing on his back, in the middle of the street, while Quackenbush was
sitting on him, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes, and to
ascertain, as nearly as possible, the number of teeth he had swallowed.
But when the members came together to make mutual explanations, Johnny
Cake was _non est_. Great, indeed, was the cry that was heard after the
missing member. Quackenbush bellowed out, in a heavy, sonorous voice,
that the difficulty was all past, when Johnny's shrill voice was heard
in response. The voice proceeded from an empty molasses hogshead, into
which Johnny had jumped, during the melee, for safety. His
brother-members released him from his situation, and, when he was once
more on Gotham's pavement, he was literally a sweet case. Dirty sugar
adhered to every part of his exterior. Explanations were then made, and
the members proceeded to shake hands all round, except Mr. Dropper, who
couldn't shake hands with anybody, because some one had upset a bucket
of tar on his fingers, and he couldn't get it off.

The matter being at length arranged