It had not occurred to him that way

This account of it was false, Rufus was sure, but it seemed to him more exciting than his own, and more creditable to his father and to him, and nobody could question, scornfully, whether that could kill, as they could of just a blow on the chin; so he didn’t try to contradict. He felt that he was lying, and in some way being disloyal as well, but he said only, “He was instantly killed. He didn’t have to feel any pain.” “Never even knowed what hit him,” a boy said quietly. “That’s what my dad says.” “No,” Rufus said. It had not occurred to him that way. “I guess he didn’t.” Never even knowed what hit him. Knew. “Reckon that ole Tin Lizzie is done for now. Huh?” He wondered if there was some meanness behind calling it an old Tin Lizzie. “I guess so,” he said. “Good ole waggin, but she done broke down.” His father sang that. “No more joy rides in that ole Tin Lizzie, huh Rufus?” “I guess not,” Rufus replied shyly. He began to realize that for some moments now a bell, the school bell, had been weltering on the dark gray air; he realized it because at this moment the last of its reverberations were fading. “Last bell,” one of the boys said in sudden alarm. “Come on, we’re goana git hell,” another said; and within another second Rufus was watching them all run dwindling away up the street, and around the corner into Highland Avenue, as fast as they could go, and all round him the morning was empty and still. He stood still and watched the corner for almost half a minute after the fattest of them, and then the smallest, had disappeared; then he walked slowly back along the alley, hearing once more the sober crumbling of the cinders under each step, and up through the narrow side yard between the houses, and up the steps of the front porch.