Well, sir, we just rose right up out of our chairs; that is, all of us did but Mark Tidd, and he was so wedged in he couldn’t. It started with a crack that we could hear above the roaring of the train, then the car sagged down at the front end and began to bump and jump and wabble back and forth like a boat in a storm. We hadn’t time to get scared—only startled. Then the car went over—smash! I don’t believe anybody ever got such a jolt. The next thing I knew I was kicking around in a mess of rubbish with my head down and my feet up. Busted tables and dishes and chairs and folks were all scrambled on top of me. First off I thought sure it was the end of me, but I didn’t hurt any place, and when my heart settled down below my Adam’s apple I began squirming around to get loose.
I remember the first thing I thought about was its being so still. Nobody was hollering or groaning or anything. It surprised me and sort of frightened me. I squirmed harder and wriggled a table off me and pushed a chair away from the back of my neck. Then I sat up. You never saw such a sight. The car was lying on its side, and the lower side where I was was nothing but a jumble of things and people. And the whole jumble looked like it was squirming.
Next I thought about Mark Tidd. He was so fat and heavy I was afraid he’d be smashed all to pieces. I tried to call him, and at the third try I got out his name.
“Mark,” says I, faint-like, “are you hurt?”
Over to the left of me, under a dining-table with its legs spraddled up, I heard a grunt—a disgusted grunt. It was a familiar grunt, a grunt that belonged to Mark.
“H-h-hurt,” says he, sarcastic-like, but cool as a cucumber, only stuttering more than usual. “H-h-hurt! Me? Naw; I’m comfortable as a ulcerated t-t-tooth. Hey, you,” says he to somebody down under the rubbish, “quit a-kickin’ me in the s-s-stummick.”
I knew he was all right then, and began figgering about Tallow Martin and Plunk Smalley. In a minnit both of them came sort of oozing out from amongst things looking like they’d sat down for a friendly chat with a cyclone.
“Mother’ll be mad about these pants,” says Plunk.
“There hain’t much pants left for her to get mad about,” says Tallow, angry-like and rubbing at his shoulder. “What you want to do is get a barrel.”