An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

Outside, some odd and confusing incidents had already

occurred. For Hortense, who had been lifted out before

Clyde, and had suddenly begun to feel her face, had as

suddenly realized that her left cheek and forehead were not

only scraped but bleeding. And being seized by the notion

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that her beauty might have been permanently marred by

this accident, she was at once thrown into a state of selfish

panic which caused her to become completely oblivious,

not only to the misery and injury of the others, but to the

danger of discovery by the police, the inury to the child, the

wreck of this expensive car—in fact everything but herself

and the probability or possibility that her beauty had been

destroyed. She began to whimper on the instant and wave

her hands up and down. “Oh, goodness, goodness,

goodness!” she exclaimed desperately. “Oh, how dreadful!

Oh, how terrible! Oh, my face is all cut.” And feeling an

urgent compulsion to do something about it, she suddenly

set off (and without a word to any one and while Clyde was

still inside helping Ratterer) south along 35th Street, toward

the city where were lights and more populated streets. Her

one thought was to reach her own home as speedily as

possible in order that she might do something for herself.

Of Clyde, Sparser, Ratterer and the other girls—she really

thought nothing. What were they now? It was only

intermittently and between thoughts of her marred beauty

that she could even bring herself to think of the injured child

—the horror of which as well as the pursuit by the police,

maybe, the fact that the car did not belong to Sparser or

that it was wrecked, and that they were all liable to arrest in

consequence, affecting her but slightly. Her one thought in

regard to Clyde was that he was the one who had invited

her to this ill-fated journey—hence that he was to blame,

really. Those beastly boys—to think they should have

gotten her into this and then didn’t have-brains enough to

manage better.

The other girls, apart from Laura Sipe, were not seriously

injured—any of them. They were more frightened than

anything else, but now that this had happened they were in

a panic, lest they be overtaken by the police, arrested,

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exposed and punished. And accordingly they stood about,

exclaiming “Oh, gee, hurry, can’t you? Oh, dear, we ought

all of us to get away from here. Oh, it’s all so terrible.” Until

at last Hegglund exclaimed: “For Christ’s sake, keep quiet,

cantcha? We’re doing de best we can, cantcha see? You’ll

have de cops down on us in a minute as it is.”

And then, as if in answer to his comment, a lone

suburbanite who lived some four blocks from the scene

across the fields and who, hearing the crash and the cries

in the night, had ambled across to see what the trouble

was, now drew near and stood curiously looking at the

stricken group and the car.

“Had an accident, eh?” he exclaimed, genially enough. “Any

one badly hurt? Gee, that’s too bad. And that’s a swell car,

too. Can I help any?”

Clyde, hearing him talk and looking out and not seeing

Hortense anywhere, and not being able to do more for

Sparser than stretch him in the bottom of the car, glanced

agonizingly about. For the thought of the police and their

certain pursuit was strong upon him. He must get out of

this. He must not be caught here. Think of what would

happen to him if he were caught—how he would be

disgraced and punished probably—all his fine world

stripped from him before he could say a word really. His

mother would hear—Mr. Squires—everybody. Most

certainly he would go to jail. Oh, how terrible that thought

was—grinding really like a macerating wheel to his flesh.

They could do nothing more for Sparser, and they only laid

themselves open to being caught by lingering. So asking,

“Where’d Miss Briggs go?” he now began to climb out, then

started looking about the dark and snowy fields for her. His

thought was that he would first assist her to wherever she

might desire to go.

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But just then in the distance was heard the horns and the

hum of at least two motorcycles speeding swiftly in the

direction of this very spot. For already the wife of the

suburbanite, on hearing the crash and the cries in the

distance, had telephoned the police that an accident had

occurred here. And now the suburbanite was explaining:

““That’s them. I told the wife to telephone for an

ambulance.” And hearing this, all these others now began

to run, for they all realized what that meant. And in addition,

looking across the fields one could see the lights of these

approaching machines. They reached Thirty-first and

Cleveland together. Then one turned south toward this very

spot, along Cleveland Avenue. And the other continued

east on Thirty-first, reconnoitering for the accident.

“Beat it, for God’s sake, all of youse,” whispered Hegglund,

excitedly. “Scatter!” And forthwith, seizing Maida Axelrod by

the hand, he started to run east along Thirty-fifth Street, in

which the car then lay—along the outlying eastern suburbs.

But after a moment, deciding that that would not do either,

that it would be too easy to pursue him along a street, he

cut northeast, directly across the open fields and away from

the city.

And now, Clyde, as suddenly sensing what capture would

mean—how all his fine thoughts of pleasure would most

certainly end in disgrace and probably prison, began

running also. Only in his case, instead of following

Hegglund or any of the others, he turned south along

Cleveland Avenue toward the southern limits of the city. But

like Hegglund, realizing that that meant an easy avenue of

pursuit for any one who chose to follow, he too took to the

open fields. Only instead of running away from the city as

before, he now turned southwest and ran toward those

streets which lay to the south of Fortieth. Only much open

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space being before him before he should reach them, and a

clump of bushes showing in the near distance, and the light

of the motorcycle already sweeping the road behind him, he

ran to that and for the moment dropped behind it.

Only Sparser and Laura Sipe were left within the car, she at

that moment beginning to recover consciousness. And the

visiting stranger, much astounded, was left standing outside.

“Why, the very idea!” he suddenly said to himself. “They

must have stolen that car. It couldn’t have belonged to

them at all.”

And just then the first motorcycle reaching the scene, Clyde

from his not too distant hiding place was able to overhear.

“Well, you didn’t get away with it after all, did you? You

thought you were pretty slick, but you didn’t make it. You’re

the one we want, and what’s become of the rest of the

gang, eh? Where are they, eh?”

And hearing the suburbanite declare quite definitely that he

had nothing to do with it, that the real occupants of the car

had but then run away and might yet be caught if the police

wished, Clyde, who was still within earshot of what was

being said, began crawling upon his hands and knees at

first in the snow south, south and west, always toward

some of those distant streets which, lamplit and faintly

glowing, he saw to the southwest of him, and among which

presently, if he were not captured, he hoped to hide—to

lose himself and so escape—if the fates were only kind—

the misery and the punishment and the unending

dissatisfaction and disappointment which now, most

definitely, it all represented to him.

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Book Two

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Chapter 1

THE home of Samuel Griffiths in Lycurgus, New York, a city

of some twenty-five thousand inhabitants midway between

Utica and Albany. Near the dinner hour and by degrees the

family assembling for its customary meal. On this occasion

the preparations were of a more elaborate nature than

usual, owing to the fact that for the past four days Mr.

Samuel Griffiths, the husband and father, had been absent

attending a conference of shirt and collar manufacturers in

Chicago, price-cutting by upstart rivals in the west having

necessitated compromise and adjustment by those who

manufactured in the east. He was but now returned and

had telephoned earlier in the afternoon that he had arrived,

and was going to his office in the factory where he would

remain until dinner time.

Being long accustomed to the ways of a practical and

convinced man who believed in himself and considered his

judgment and his decision sound—almost final—for the

most part, anyhow, Mrs. Griffiths thought nothing of this. He

would appear and greet her in due order.

Knowing that he preferred leg of lamb above many other