Automobile horns tooted. An age seemed to pass, but the great splash did not come. There was still time—maybe. The car was emptied.
“Run for the Ohio end!” someone screamed.
The fog shut off every man from his neighbor. The sound of scurrying feet reverberated, of the Italian woman and her baby, of the boy carrying his girl, of the Negro youths, of the old man and his wife, half dragging the Egyptian-faced girl, of the Sisters of Charity, of the miners. Flitting like wraiths in Homer's Hades, seeking life.
In a few minutes all were safe on Ohio soil. The bridge still stood. A street light gave a ghastly glare through the fog. The whore houses on Water Street brooded evilly in the shadows. Dogs barked, the Egyptian-faced girl had fainted. The old Negro woman panted, "Mah Jesus! Mah Jesus!”
The occupants of the deserted car looked at one another. The icy touch of the Grave began to thaw. There was a generous intermingling. Everybody talked at once, inquiring, congratulating.
"Look after the girl," shouted Lee Cromarty. "Help the old woman, boys."
Bells began to ring. People came running. The ambulance arrived. The colored girl had recovered. Then everybody shouted again. Profane miners, used to catastrophe, were strangely moved. The white boy and girl held hands.
“Sing us a song, old woman,” drawled Lafe.
“He's heard mah groan. He done heard it,” burst forth the old woman in a song flood of triumph.
Yes, he conquered Death and Hell,
An' He never said a mumblin' word,
Not a word, not a word.
"How you feelin', Mike,” said Bill to the garlic eater.
“Me fine. Me fine.”
The news of the event spread like wildfire. The street was now crowded. The police arrived. A bridge official appeared announcing the probable cause of the accident, a slipping of
