Absolutely irresponsible for his actions now, he stood unable to move, his whole body possessed by the mighty rushing sound which filled his ears; the world around, the heaven above, the earth beneath grew full of the thunder of it. Upon those monstrous vibrations his soul mounted to bliss; he had become superior to his own body at last, did not mind, was not afraid. Heaven had been gracious to him after all. Suddenly the engine, opening its throttle, gave a ghastly scream. With a blast of its nostrils, a rattling of chains, a grinding of brakes, and a screeching of wheels, which sent shuddering discords to the night, it came to a precipitate standstill, less than a dozen yards from where Mr. Trimblerigg stood with sapling feet waiting to be uprooted for another and a better world. Those horrible noises, and the abrupt abatement of its speed snatched Mr. Trimblerigg from his trance. With loosened knees and presence of mind mercifully restored, now only apprehensive of detection and capture, he sped swiftly away; high-hedged night received him into its obliterating embrace; the track was clear. A stoker, descending hastily from the arrested train, searched the line ahead. His voice swung back angrily out of the darkness: ‘Red light? I don’t see no red light. It’s some damned fool’s been having a blooming game with us--that was all.’ And so, with a rich accompaniment of expletives from stoker and driver, the express proceeded upon its way. Mr. Trimblerigg, in a much more shaken state, did the same. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE _A Run for Life_ The shock of his escape had left Mr. Trimblerigg dazed and tremulous. He went feebly, not yet quite reawakened to the world which, in that moment of exaltation, he had thought to be leaving behind him. But instinct, and the loud jolly sounds of his fellow-creatures drew him toward the glaring lights and bustle of the fair-ground. An illuminated crowd was a refuge from his condition; amid the flare of those naphtha lamps his radiance would be unapparent. But while he thus moved toward the light, he forgot that his back was to darkness, and as he skirted the outer circle of the booths, standing shoulder to shoulder with their farther sides dressed to the staring crowd in gaudy habiliments of painted canvas, he was startled to hear a voice exclaim, ‘What’s that bloody sunset doing there?’ and to perceive that it was directed at him. The showman, jumping down from the back door of his van, ran hastily towards him, thrust a bewildered face at him, and stopped amazed. ‘Well, of all blinking wonders,’ he cried, ‘you take the cake!’ Mr. Trimblerigg, trying by superior calmness to control the awkward situation, wished him a good evening, and was for passing on. The man caught him by the arm. ‘Here! which of the blooming shows d’you belong to? I hadn’t heard tell of you.’ Mr. Trimblerigg replied that he did not belong to any show. The man was dumbfounded.