The police now began to move upon the crowd, and, good-naturedly but firmly, with outstretched arms, started to herd4 everybody back, out of the court, through the arches, and across the surrounding streets. The streets were laced and criss-crossed everywhere with bewildering skeins of hose, and all normal sounds were lost in the powerful throbbing5 of the fire-engines. Unceremoniously, like driven cattle, the residents of the great building were forced back to the opposite pavements, where they had to take their places among the humbler following of the general public.
Some of the ladies, finding themselves too thinly clad in the cold night air, sought refuge in the apartments of friends who lived in the neighbourhood. Others, tired of standing6 round, went to hotels to wait or to spend the night. But most of the people hung on, curious and eager to what the outcome might be. Mr. Jack7 took Edith, Alma, Amy, and two or three young people of Amy’s acquaintance to a near-by hotel for drinks. The others stayed and looked on curiously8 for a while. But presently Mrs. Jack, George Webber, Miss Mandell, and Stephen Hook repaired to a drug-store that was close at hand. They sat at the counter, ordered coffee and sandwiches, and engaged in eager chatter9 with other refugees who now filled the store.
The conversation of all these people was friendly and casual. Some were even gay. But in their talk there was also now a note of perturbation — of something troubled, puzzled, and uncertain. Men of wealth and power had been suddenly dispossessed from their snug10 nests with their wives, families, and dependents, and now there was nothing they could do but wait, herded11 homelessly into drug-stores and hotel lobbies, or huddled12 together in their wraps on street corners like shipwrecked voyagers, looking at one another with helpless eyes. Some of them felt, dimly, that they had been caught up by some mysterious and relentless13 force, and that they were being borne onwards as unwitting of the power that ruled them as blind flies fastened to a revolving14 wheel. To others came the image of a tremendous web in which they felt they had become enmeshed — a web whose ramifications15 were so vast and complicated that they had not the faintest notion where it began or what its pattern was.
For in the well-ordered world in which these people lived, something had gone suddenly wrong. Things had got out of control. They were the lords and masters of the earth, vested with authority and accustomed to command, but now the control had been taken from them. So they felt strangely helpless, no longer able to command the situation, no longer able even to find out what was happening.
But, in ways remote from their blind and troubled kenning16, events had been moving to their inexorable conclusion.
In one of the smoky corridors of that enormous hive, two men in boots and helmets had met in earnest communion.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s in the basement, chief. It’s not on the roof at all — a draught18 is taking it up a vent17. But it’s down there.” He pointed19 with his thumb.
“Well, then, go get it. You know what to do.”
“It looks bad, chief. It’s going to be hard to get.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“If we flood the basement, we’ll also flood two levels of railroad tracks. You know what that means.”
For a moment their eyes held each other steadily20. Then the older man jerked his head and started for the stairs.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going down.”
Down in the bowels21 of the earth there was a room where lights were burning and it was always night.
There, now, a telephone rang, and a man with a green eyeshade seated at a desk answered it.
“Hello . . . Oh, hello, Mike.”
He listened carefully for a moment, suddenly jerked forward taut22 with interest, and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth.
“The hell you say! . . . Where? Over track thirty-two? . . . They’re going to flood it! . . . Hell!”
Deep in the honeycombs of the rock the lights burned green and red and yellow, silent in the eternal dark, lovely, poignant23 as remembered grief. Suddenly, all up and down the faintly gleaming rails, the green and yellow eyes winked24 out and flashed to warning red.
A few blocks away, just where the network of that amazing underworld of railroad yards begins its mighty25 flare26 of burnished27 steel, the Limited halted swiftly, but so smoothly28 that the passengers, already standing to debark29, felt only a slight jar and were unaware30 that anything unusual had happened.
Ahead, however, in the cab of the electric locomotive which had pulled the great train the last miles of its span along the Hudson River, the engineer peered out and read the signs. He saw the shifting patterns of hard light against the dark, and swore:
“Now what the hell?”
And as the great train slid to a stop, the current in the third rail was shut off and the low whine31 that always came from the powerful motors of the locomotive was suddenly silenced. Turning now across his instruments to another man, the engineer spoke32 quietly:
“I wonder what the hell has happened,” he said.
For a long time the Limited stood a silent and powerless thing of steel, while a short distance away the water flooded down and flowed between the tracks there like a river. And five hundred men and women who had been caught up from their lives and swiftly borne from cities, towns, and little hamlets all across the continent were imprisoned33 in the rock, weary, impatient, frustrated34 — only five minutes away from the great station that was the end and goal of their combined desire. And in the station itself other hundreds waited for them — and went on waiting — restless, wondering, anxious, knowing nothing about the why of it.
Meanwhile, on the seventh landing of the service stairs in the evacuated35 building, firemen had been working feverishly36 with axes. The place was dense38 with smoke. The sweating men wore masks, and the only, light they had was that provided by their torchlights.
They had battered39 open the doorway40 of the elevator shaft41, and one of them had lowered himself down on to the roof of the imprisoned car half a floor below and was now cutting into the roof with his sharp axe37.
“Have you got it, Ed?”
“Yeah — just about . . . I’m almost through . . . This next one does it, I think.”
The axe smashed down again. There was a splintering crash. And then:
“O.K . . . Wait a minute . . . Hand me down the flashlight, Tom.”
“See anything?”
In a moment, quietly:
“Yeah . . . I’m going in . . . Jim, you better come down, too. I’ll need you.”
There was a brief silence, then the man’s quiet voice again:
“O.K . . . I’ve got it . . . Here, Jim, reach down and get underneath42 the arms . . . Got it? . . . O.K . . . Tom, you better reach down and help Jim . . . Good.”
Together they lifted it from its imprisoned trap, looked at it for a moment in the flare of their flashlights, and laid it down, not ungently, on the floor — something old and tired and dead and very pitiful.
Mrs. Jack went to the window of the drug-store and peered out at the great building across the street.
“I wonder if anything’s happening over there,” she said to her friends with a puzzled look on her face. “Do you suppose it’s over? Have they got it out?”
The dark immensity of those towering walls told nothing, but there were signs that the fire was almost out. There were fewer lines of hose in the street, and one could see firemen pulling them in and putting them back in the trucks. Other firemen were coming from the building, bringing their tools and stowing them away. All the great engines were still throbbing powerfully, but the lines that had connected them with the hydrants were uncoupled, and the water they were pumping now came from somewhere else and was rushing in torrents43 down all the gutters44. The police still held the crowd back and would not yet permit the tenants45 to return to their apartments.
The newspapermen, who had early arrived upon the scene, were now beginning to come into the drug-store to telephone their stories to the papers. They were a motley crew, a little shabby and threadbare, with battered hats in which their Press cards had been stuck, and some of them had the red noses which told of long hours spent in speak-easies.
One would have known that they were newspapermen even without their Press cards. The signs were unmistakable. There was something jaded46 in the eye, something a little worn and tarnished47 about the whole man, something that got into his face, his tone, the way he walked, the way he smoked a cigarette, even into the hang of his trousers, and especially into his battered hat, which revealed instantly that these were gentlemen of the Press.
It was something wearily receptive, wearily cynical48, something that said wearily: “I know, I know. But what’s the story? What’s the racket?”
And yet it was something that one liked, too, something corrupted49 but still good, something that had once blazed with hope and aspiration50, something that said: “Sure. I used to think I had it in me, too, and I’d have given my life to write something good. Now I’m just a whore. I’d sell my best friend out to get a story. I’d betray your trust, your faith, your friendliness51, twist everything you say around until any sincerity52, sense, or honesty that might be in your words was made to sound like the maunderings of a buffoon53 or a clown — if I thought it would make a better story. I don’t give a damn for truth, for accuracy, for facts, for telling anything about you people here, your lives, your speech, the way you look, the way you really are, the special quality, tone, and weather of this moment — of this fire — except insofar as they will help to make a story. What I went to get is the special ‘angle’ on it. There has been grief and love and fear and ecstasy54 and pain and death to-night: a whole universe of living has been here enacted55. But all of it doesn’t matter a damn to me if I can only pick up something that will make the customers sit up tomorrow and rub their eyes — if I can tell ’em that in the excitement Miss Lena Ginster’s pet boa constrictor escaped from its cage and that the police and fire departments are still looking for it while Members of Fashionable Apartment House Dwell in Terror . . . So there I am, folks, with yellow fingers, weary eyeballs, a ginny breath, and what is left of last night’s hangover, and I wish to God I could get to that telephone to send this story in, so the boss would tell me to go home, and I could step round to Eddy’s place for a couple more highballs before I call it another day. But don’t be too hard on me. Sure, I’d sell you out, of course. No man’s name or any woman’s reputation is safe with me — if I can make a story out of it — but at bottom I’m not such a bad guy. I have violated the standards of decency56 again and again, but in my heart I’ve always wanted to be decent. I don’t tell the truth, but there’s a kind of bitter honesty in me for all that. I’m able to look myself in the face at times, and tell the truth about myself and see just what I am. And I hate sham57 and hypocrisy58 and pretence59 and fraud and crookedness60, and if I could only be sure that tomorrow was going to be the last day of the world — oh, Christ! — what a paper we’d get out in the morning! And, too, I have a sense of humour, I love gaiety, food, drink, good talk, good companionship, the whole thrilling pageantry of life. So don’t be too severe on me. I’m really not as bad as some of the things I have to do.”
Such, indefinably yet plainly, were the markings of these men. It was as if the world which had so soiled them with its grimy touch had also left upon them some of its warm earthiness — the redeeming61 virtues62 of its rich experience, its wit and understanding, the homely63 fellowship of its pungent64 speech.
Two or three of them now went round among the people in the drug-store and began to interview them. The questions that they asked seemed ludicrously inappropriate. They approached some of the younger and prettier girls, found out if they lived in the building, and immediately asked, with naive65 eagerness, whether they were in the Social Register. Whenever any of the girls admitted that she was, the reporters would write down her name and the details of her parentage.
Meanwhile, one of the representatives of the Press, a rather seedy-looking gentleman with a bulbous red nose and infrequent teeth, had called his City Desk on the telephone and, sprawled66 in the booth with his hat pushed back on his head and his legs sticking out through the open door, was reporting his findings. George Webber was standing with a group of people at the back of the store, near the booth. He had noticed the reporter when he first came in, and had been fascinated by something in his seedy, hard-boiled look; and now, although George appeared to be listening to the casual chatter around him, he was really hanging with concentrated attention on every word the man was saying:
“ . . . Sure, that’s what I’m tellin’ yuh. Just take it down . . . The police arrived,” he went on importantly, as if fascinated by his own journalese —“the police arrived and threw a cordon67 round the building.” There was a moment’s pause, then the red-nosed man rasped out irritably68: “No, no, no! Not a squadron! A cordon! . . . What’s ‘at? . . . Cordon, I say! C-o-r-d-o-n — cordon! . . . For Pete’s sake!” he went on in an aggrieved69 tone. “How long have you been workin’ on a newspaper, anyway? Didn’t yuh ever hear of a cordon before? . . . Now get this. Listen ——” he went on in a careful voice, glancing at some scrawled70 notes on a piece of paper in his hand. “Among the residents are included many Social Registerites and others prominent among the younger set . . . What? How’s that?” he said abruptly71, rather puzzled. “Oh!”
He looked round quickly to see if he was being overheard, then lowered his voice and spoke again:
“Oh, sure! Two! . . . Nah, there was only two — that other story was all wrong. They found the old dame72 . . . But that’s what I’m tellin’ yuh! She was all alone when the fire started — see! Her family was out, and when they got back they thought she was trapped up there. But they found her. She was down in the crowd. That old dame was one of the first ones out . . . Yeh — only two. Both of ’em was elevator men.” He lowered his voice a little more, then, looking at his notes, he read carefully: “John Enborg . . . age sixty-four . . . married . . . three children . . . lives in Jamaica, Queens . . . You got that?” he said, then proceeded: “And Herbert Anderson . . . age twenty-five . . . unmarried . . . lives with his mother . . . 841 Southern Boulevard, the Bronx . . . Have yuh got it? Sure. Oh, sure!”
Once more he looked round, then lowered his voice before he spoke again:
“No, they couldn’t get ’em out. They was both on the elevators, goin’ up to get the tenants — see! — when some excited fool fumbled73 for the light switches and grabbed the wrong one and shut the current off on ’em . . . Sure. That’s the idea. They got caught between the floors . . . They just got Enborg out,” his voice sank lower. “They had to use axes . . . Sure. Sure.” He nodded into the mouthpiece. “That’s it — smoke. Too late when they got to him . . . No, that’s all. Just those two . . . No, they don’t know about it yet. Nobody knows. The management wants to keep it quiet if they can . . . What’s that? Hey! — speak louder, can’t yuh? You’re mumblin’ at me!”
He had shouted sharply, irritably, into the instrument, and now listened attentively74 for a moment.
“Yeh, it’s almost over. But it’s been tough. They had trouble gettin’ at it. It started in the basement, then it went up a flue and out at the top . . . Sure, I know,” he nodded. “That’s what made it so tough. Two levels of tracks are right below. They were afraid to flood the basement at first — afraid to risk it. They tried to get at it with chemicals, but couldn’t . . . Yeh, so they turned off the juice down there and put the water on it. They probably got trains backed up all the way to Albany by now . . . Sure, they’re pumpin’ it out. It’s about over, I guess, but it’s been tough . . . O.K., Mac. Want me to stick around? . . . O.K.,” he said, and hung up.
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1
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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7
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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8
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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10
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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11
herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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12
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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13
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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14
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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15
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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kenning
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| n.比喻的复合辞v.知道( ken的现在分词 )；懂得；看到；认出 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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18
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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24
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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25
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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debark
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| v.卸载；下船，下飞机，下车 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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32
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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evacuated
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| 撤退者的 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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39
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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40
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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41
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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42
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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43
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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44
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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45
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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46
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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47
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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48
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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49
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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50
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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51
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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52
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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53
buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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54
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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55
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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57
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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58
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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59
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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60
crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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62
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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cordon
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| n.警戒线，哨兵线 | |
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68
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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69
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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