Into the abyss that thus suddenly yawned before him, Phaeton and his chariot plunged.
After him went Patsy Rafferty, who on seeing the danger had laid hold of the car and tried to stop it, but failed. Whether he jumped through, or let himself down more cautiously by hanging from the floor of the bridge and dropping, I did not see; but, at all events, when the rest of us reached the tow-path by running down the embankment, the waters of the canal had closed over both boys and the car.
At this moment another accident complicated the trouble and increased the excitement. This was a "tow-path bridge"—one which the boat-horses have to pass over, because at that point the tow-path changes from one side of the canal to the other. The "Red Bird" packet-horses, coming up at a round trot, when they reached the crown of the bridge and saw the rushing, roaring caravan coming at them, and heard Phaeton's yell, stopped, and stood shivering with fear. But the packet was all the while going ahead by its own momentum, and when it had gone the length of the tow-line, it jerked the horses over the parapet into the water, where they floundered within a yard of the sunken machine.
The Dublin women gathered on the tow-path, and immediately set up an unearthly wail, such as I have never heard before or since. I think that some of them must have "cried the keen," as it is called in Ireland.
Patsy soon emerged from beneath the wreck, hauling Phaeton out by the hair, and as half a dozen of the boys, from both parties, were now in the water, they had plenty of help. The bow-hand of the "Red Bird" cut the tow-line with a hatchet,—if he had been attending to his business, he would have done it soon enough to prevent the accident,—and the horses, thus released, swam ashore.
Meantime the circus had stopped, and many of the men came to the scene of the disaster, while most of the packet passengers stepped ashore and also joined the wondering crowd.
The steersman brought a long pike-pole, with which he fished out Phaeton's car.
Every one of the kite-strings was broken, and the kites had gone down the sky, with that wobbling motion peculiar to what the boys call a "kite-broke-away," to find lodgment in some distant forest or meadow.
Great was the wonderment expressed, and many were the questions asked, as the packet passengers and the circus people crowded around the rescued car and the dripping boys. The Dublin women were wringing out the jackets of our boys, and talking rather fast.
A benevolent-looking old gentleman, who wore a white vest and a large fob-chain, said, "Something ought to be done for that boy"—pointing to Patsy Rafferty.