Out into the open, where the sun paled the electric lights of the car into a sickly yellow, up into the air, peering into third story tenements and down narrow alleys, aflutter with countless flapping pieces of laundry work, then suddenly into the darkness of the tunnel again, then out, on the surface of country fields, and dreary winter landscape, to the terminal. It was more cosy in the tunnel, and they returned there for lunch, while the general manager and the general engineer and the general construction manager of the Municipal Transportation Company, with occasional crisp visits from President Allison, soberly discussed the condition of the line. The Reverend Smith Boyd displayed an unexpected technical interest in that subject. He had taken an engineering course in college, and, in fact, he had once wavered seriously between that occupation and the Church, and he put two or three questions so pertinent that he awakened a new respect in Allison. Allison took the rector to the observation platform to explain something in the construction of the receding tunnel, and as they stood there earnestly talking, with concentrated brows and eyes searching into each other for quick understanding, Gail Sargent was suddenly struck by a wonder as to what makes the differences in men. Allison, slightly stocky, standing with his feet spread sturdily apart and his hands in his coat pockets, and his clean-cut profile slightly upturned to the young rector, was the very epitome of force, of decisive action, of unconquerable will. He seemed to fairly radiate resistless energy, and as she looked, Gail was filled with the admiration she had often felt for this exponent of the distinctively American spirit of achievement. She had never seen the type in so perfect an example, and again there seemed to wave toward her that indefinable thrill with which he had so often impressed her. Was the thrill altogether pleasurable? She could not tell, but she did know that with it there was mixed a something which she could not quite fathom in herself. Was it dislike? No, not that. Was it resentment? Was it fear? She asked herself that last question again.
The young rector was vastly different; taller and broader-shouldered, and more erect of carriage, and fully as firm of profile, he did not somehow seem to impress her with the strength of Allison. He was more temperamental, and, consequently, more susceptible to change; therefore weaker. Was that deduction correct? She wondered, for it troubled her. She was not quite satisfied.
Suddenly there came a dull, muffled report, like the distant firing of a cannon; then an interval of silence, an infinitesimal one, in which the car ran smoothly on, and, half rising, they looked at each other in startled questioning. Then, all at once, came a stupendous roar, as if the world had split asunder, a jolting and jerking, a headlong stoppage, a clattering, and slapping and crashing and grinding, deafening in its volume, and with it all, darkness; blackness so intense that it seemed almost palpable to the touch!
There was a single shriek, and a nervous laugh verging on hysteria. The shriek was from Arly, and the laugh from Lucile. There was a cry from the forward end of the car, as if some one in pain. A man’s yell of fright; Greggory the general manager. A strong hand clutched Gail’s in the darkness, firm, reassuring. The rector.
“Don’t move!” it was the voice of Allison, crisp, harsh, commanding.
“Anybody hurt?” Tim Corman, the voice of age, but otherwise steady. One could sense, somehow, that he sat rigid in his chair, with both hands on his cane.
“It’s me,” called Tom, the motorman. “Head cut a little, arm bruised. Nothing bad.”
“Gail?” Allison again.
“Yes.” Clear voiced, with the courage which has no sex.
“Mrs. Teasdale? Mrs. Fosland?”