A cry went up from the pack running after him when he fell. There was tension and hysteria in that concerted cry. And other things too, but he scarcely thought about it at all. Three women fell out of the race and clutched their sides and laughed; one of them fell on the sidewalk laughing like that, her belly puffing up huge with laughter, and subsiding again, letting it go. He scrambled up to his feet, their cries in his ears, spurring him on; he must run, run until he dropped, going God knows where. He scrambled to his feet, his fingers clawing at the asphalt, stumbled on, sounds filling his ears… shriek of a locomotive whistle…coming up, rising to a pitch, and going away…he turned the corner into the street that was at right angles to the one he had come down from the Slaughter House gates… he was running blind before, reacting to the compulsion of his fear…but now he saw his objective and it lent his effort purpose…a long line of freight cars was coming down from the railway yard along the lines that ran across the street, going towards No.1 Pier.

The gates were lowered across the street stopping traffic; all he had to do was to get across the lines before that string of freight cars. They would cut off his pursuit for the time it would take that long train to cross the street. Trains always slowed down going into the dockyard; sometimes stopped, straddling the street. All he had was to get across.

The man operating the gate yelled at him. He paid no heed. He had balanced it in his mind to nicety, figured he’d just have time to get across. He went under the gate. Voices shouted in his ears …the scream of the locomotive whistle rising to a crescendo…he paid no heed. The train was hurtling toward him, but he had time, he could make it.