People began to troop into the car. They came crushing along in droves, frightened to death, some weeping, some half-mad with terror.
Hawkins surveyed them with much the expression of Napoleon arriving in Hades. The conductor approached once more.
“They're all in here,” he said resignedly. “Thank Heaven, there are two freight cars on the rear of the train! That may do a little good! But that express! Man, man! What have you done!”
“Did he do it? Is it his fault?” cried a dozen voices.
“No, no, no, no!” shrieked the inventor. “He's lying!”
“You'd better tell the truth now, man,” said the conductor sadly. “You may not have much longer to tell it.”
“Lynch him!” yelled some one.
There was a move toward Hawkins. I don't know where it might have ended. Very likely they would have suspended Hawkins from one of the ventilators and pelted him with hand satchels—and very small blame to them had there been time.
But just as the crowd moved—well, then I fancied that the world had come to an end.
There was a shock, terrific beyond description—window panes clattered into the car—the whole coach was hurled from the tracks and slid sideways for several seconds.