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"
Oh
,
Christ
!
"
"
Feel
his
heart
!
"
Then
the
insistent
voice
of
the
old
crone
in
a
sort
of
croaking
triumph
:
"
He
's
quite
dead
,
all
right
.
The
car
turned
over
.
Two
of
the
men
that
were
n't
hurt
just
carried
the
others
in
,
but
this
one
's
no
use
.
"
Amory
rushed
into
the
house
and
the
rest
followed
with
a
limp
mass
that
they
laid
on
the
sofa
in
the
shoddy
little
front
parlor
.
Sloane
,
with
his
shoulder
punctured
,
was
on
another
lounge
.
He
was
half
delirious
,
and
kept
calling
something
about
a
chemistry
lecture
at
8:10
.
"
I
do
n't
know
what
happened
,
"
said
Ferrenby
in
a
strained
voice
.
"
Dick
was
driving
and
he
would
n't
give
up
the
wheel
;
we
told
him
he
'd
been
drinking
too
much
--
then
there
was
this
damn
curve
--
oh
,
my
God
!
...
"
He
threw
himself
face
downward
on
the
floor
and
broke
into
dry
sobs
.
The
doctor
had
arrived
,
and
Amory
went
over
to
the
couch
,
where
some
one
handed
him
a
sheet
to
put
over
the
body
.
With
a
sudden
hardness
,
he
raised
one
of
the
hands
and
let
it
fall
back
inertly
.
The
brow
was
cold
but
the
face
not
expressionless
.
He
looked
at
the
shoe-laces
--
Dick
had
tied
them
that
morning
.
He
had
tied
them
--
and
now
he
was
this
heavy
white
mass
.
All
that
remained
of
the
charm
and
personality
of
the
Dick
Humbird
he
had
known
--
oh
,
it
was
all
so
horrible
and
unaristocratic
and
close
to
the
earth
.
All
tragedy
has
that
strain
of
the
grotesque
and
squalid
--
so
useless
,
futile
...
the
way
animals
die
...
Amory
was
reminded
of
a
cat
that
had
lain
horribly
mangled
in
some
alley
of
his
childhood
.
"
Some
one
go
to
Princeton
with
Ferrenby
.
"
Amory
stepped
outside
the
door
and
shivered
slightly
at
the
late
night
wind
--
a
wind
that
stirred
a
broken
fender
on
the
mass
of
bent
metal
to
a
plaintive
,
tinny
sound
.
