came slowly through the crowd, who escaped by a hair's breadth, and
then slipped on the tram-rail and fell down. I have both accounts
set forth, under screaming headlines, in two of these sere newspapers
upon my desk. No one could ever ascertain the truth. Indeed, in
such a blind tumult of passion, could there be any truth?

There was a rush forward, the horn of the car sounded, everything
swayed violently to the right for perhaps ten yards or so, and
there was a report like a pistol-shot.

For a moment every one seemed running away. A woman, carrying a
shawl-wrapped child, blundered into me, and sent me reeling back.
Every one thought of firearms, but, as a matter of fact, something
had gone wrong with the motor, what in those old-fashioned contrivances
was called a backfire. A thin puff of bluish smoke hung in the air
behind the thing. The majority of the people scattered back in a
disorderly fashion, and left a clear space about the struggle that
centered upon the motor-car.

The man or boy who had fallen was lying on the ground with no one
near him, a black lump, an extended arm and two sprawling feet.
The motor-car had stopped, and its three occupants were standing
up. Six or seven black figures surrounded the car, and appeared
to be holding on to it as if to prevent it from starting again;
one--it was Mitchell, a well-known labor leader--argued in fierce
low tones with Lord Redcar. I could not hear anything they said,
I was not near enough. Behind me the colliery gates were open,
and there was a sense of help coming to the motor-car from that
direction. There was an unoccupied muddy space for fifty yards,
perhaps, between car and gate, and then the wheels and head of the