The Magnificent Ambersons by Booth Tarkington (little red riding hood ebook .TXT) 📕

“They do,” Eugene agreed.

“I thought you’d probably heard about it⁠—thought most likely Fred’s wife might have said something to your daughter, especially as they’re cousins.”

“I think not.”

“Well, I’m off to the store,” said Mr. Kinney briskly; yet he lingered. “I suppose we’ll all have to club in and keep old Fanny out of the poorhouse if he does blow up. From all I hear it’s usually only a question of time. They say she hasn’t got anything else to depend on.”

“I suppose not.”

“Well⁠—I wondered⁠—” Kinney hesitated. “I was wondering why you hadn’t thought of finding something around your works for him. They say he’s an all-fired worker and he certainly does seem to have hid some decent stuff in him under all his damfoolishness. And you used to be such a tremendous friend of the family⁠—I thought perhaps you⁠—of course I know he’s a queer lot⁠—I know⁠—”

“Yes, I think he is,” said Eugene. “No. I haven’t anything to offer him.”

“I suppose not,” Kinney returned thoughtfully, as he went out. “I don’t know that I would myself. Well, we’ll probably see his name in the papers some day if he stays with that job!”

… However, the nitroglycerin expert of whom they spoke did not get into the papers as a consequence of being blown up, although his daily life was certainly a continuous exposure to that risk. Destiny has a constant passion for the incongruous, and it was George’s lot to manipulate wholesale quantities of terrific and volatile explosives in safety, and to be laid low by an accident so commonplace and inconsequent that it was a comedy. Fate had reserved for him the final insult of riding him down under the wheels of one of those juggernauts at which he had once shouted “Git a hoss!” Nevertheless, Fate’s ironic choice for Georgie’s undoing was not a big and swift and momentous car, such as Eugene manufactured; it was a specimen of the hustling little type that was flooding the country, the cheapest, commonest, hardiest little car ever made.

The accident took place upon a Sunday morning, on a downtown crossing, with the streets almost empty, and no reason in the world for such a thing to happen. He had gone out for his Sunday morning walk, and he was thinking of an automobile at the very moment when the little car struck him; he was thinking of a shiny landaulet and a charming figure stepping into it, and of the quick gesture of a white glove toward the chauffeur, motioning him to go on. George heard a shout but did not look up, for he could not imagine anybody’s shouting at him, and he was too engrossed in the question “Was it Lucy?” He could not decide, and his lack of decision in this matter probably superinduced a lack of decision in another, more pressingly vital. At the second and louder shout he did look up; and the car was almost on him; but he could not make up his mind if the charming little figure he had seen was Lucy’s and he could not make up his mind whether to go backward or forward: these questions became entangled in his mind. Then, still not being able to decide which of two ways to go, he tried to go both⁠—and the little car ran him down. It was not moving very rapidly, but it went all the way over George.

He was conscious of gigantic violence; of roaring and jolting and concussion; of choking clouds of dust, shot with lightning, about his head; he heard snapping sounds as loud as shots from a small pistol, and was stabbed by excruciating pains in his legs. Then he became aware that the machine was being lifted off of him. People were gathering in a circle round him, gabbling.

His forehead was bedewed with the sweat of anguish, and he tried to wipe off this dampness, but failed. He could not get his arm that far.

“Nev’ mind,” a policeman said; and George could see above his eyes the skirts of the blue coat, covered with dust and sunshine. “Amb’lance be here in a minute. Nev’ mind tryin’ to move any. You want ’em to send for some special doctor?”

“No.” George’s lips formed the word.

“Or to take you to some private hospital?”

“Tell them to take me,” he said faintly, “to the City Hospital.”

“A’ right.”

A smallish young man in a duster fidgeted among the crowd, explaining and protesting, and a strident voiced girl, his companion, supported his argument, declaring to everyone her willingness to offer testimony in any court of law that every blessed word he said was the God’s truth.

“It’s the fella that hit you,” the policeman said, looking down on George. “I guess he’s right; you must of been thinkin’ about somep’m’ or other. It’s wunnerful the damage them little machines can do⁠—you’d never think it⁠—but I guess they ain’t much case ag’in this fella that was drivin’ it.”

“You bet your life they ain’t no case on me!” the young man in the duster agreed, with great bitterness. He came and stood at George’s feet, addressing him heatedly: “I’m sorry fer you all right, and I don’t say I ain’t. I hold nothin’ against you, but it wasn’t any more my fault than the statehouse! You run into me, much as I run into you, and if you get well you ain’t goin’ to get not one single cent out o’ me! This lady here was settin’ with me and we both yelled at you. Wasn’t goin’ a step over eight mile an hour! I’m perfectly willing to say I’m sorry for you though, and so’s the lady with me. We’re both willing to say that much, but that’s all, understand!”

George’s drawn eyelids twitched; his misted glance rested fleetingly upon the two protesting motorists, and the old imperious spirit within him flickered up in a single word. Lying on his back in the middle of the street, where he