Now it was the most splendid thing this sky of earth has ever held.  I have never seen a photograph that gave a proper idea of it.  Never at any time did it assume the conventional tailed outline, comets are supposed to have.  Astronomers talked of its double tail, one preceding it and one trailing behind it, but these were foreshortened to nothing, so that it had rather the form of a bellying puff of luminous smoke with an intenser, brighter heart.  It rose a hot yellow color, and only began to show its distinctive greenness when it was clear of the mists of the evening.

It compelled attention for a space.  For all my earthly concentration of mind, I could but stare at it for a moment with a vague anticipation that, after all, in some way so strange and glorious an object must have significance, could not possibly be a matter of absolute indifference to the scheme and values of my life.

But how?

I thought of Parload.  I thought of the panic and uneasiness that was spreading in this very matter, and the assurances of scientific men that the thing weighed so little—­at the utmost a few hundred tons of thinly diffused gas and dust—­that even were it to smite this earth fully, nothing could possibly ensue.  And, after all, said I, what earthly significance has any one found in the stars?

Then, as one still descended, the houses and buildings rose up, the presence of those watching groups of people, the tension of the situation; and one forgot the sky.

Preoccupied with myself and with my dark dream about Nettie and my honor, I threaded my course through the stagnating threat of this gathering, and was caught unawares, when suddenly the whole scene flashed into drama. . . .

The attention of every one swung round with an irresistible magnetism towards the High Street, and caught me as a rush of waters might catch a wisp of hay.  Abruptly the whole crowd was sounding one note.  It was not a word, it was a sound that mingled threat and protest, something between a prolonged “Ah!” and “Ugh!” Then with a hoarse intensity of anger came a low heavy booing, “Boo! boo—­oo!” a note stupidly expressive of animal savagery.  “Toot, toot!” said Lord Redcar’s automobile in ridiculous repartee.  “Toot, toot!” One heard it whizzing and throbbing as the crowd obliged it to slow down.

Everybody seemed in motion towards the colliery gates, I, too, with the others.

I heard a shout.  Through the dark figures about me I saw the motor-car stop and move forward again, and had a glimpse of something writhing on the ground.

It was alleged afterwards that Lord Redcar was driving, and that he quite deliberately knocked down a little boy who would not get out of his way.  It is asserted with equal confidence that the boy was a man who tried to pass across the front of the motor-car as it 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?