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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

"Peter: a novel of which he is not the hero"

Gangs
of men swarmed up the side of the hill; stumbling, falling;
picking themselves up only to stumble and fall again. Down the
railroad tracks swept a repair squad who had been straightening a
switch, their foreman in the lead. From out of the cabins
bareheaded women and children ran screaming.
The end of the "fill" nearest the tunnel was now black with
people; those nearest to the opening were shielding their faces
from the deadly gas. The roar of voices was incessant; some
shouted from sheer excitement; others broke into curses, shaking
their fists at The Beast; blaming the management. All about stood
shivering women with white faces, some chewing the corners of
their shawls in their agony.
Then a cry clearer than the others soared above the heads of the
terror-stricken mob as a rescue gang made ready to enter the
tunnel:
"Water! Water! Get a bucket, some of ye! Ye can't live in that
smoke yet! Tie your mouth up if you're going in! Wet it, damn ye!
--do ye want to be choked stiff!"
A shrill voice now cut the air.


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