"At the same time," said Challenger, his great voice booming strangely amid the silence, "it is difficult for us to conceive that out of seven millions of people there is only this one old woman who by some peculiarity of constitution or some accident of occupation has managed to survive this catastrophe.""If there should be others, how can we hope to find them, George?" asked the lady."And yet I agree with you that we cannot go back until we have tried."Getting out of the car and leaving it by the curb, we walked with some difficulty along the crowded pavement of King William Street and entered the open door of a large insurance office.It was a corner house, and we chose it as commanding a view in every direction.Ascending the stair, we passed through what Isuppose to have been the board-room, for eight elderly men were seated round a long table in the centre of it.The high window was open and we all stepped out upon the balcony.From it we could see the crowded city streets radiating in every direction, while below us the road was black from side to side with the tops of the motionless taxis.All, or nearly all, had their heads pointed outwards, showing how the terrified men of the city had at the last moment made a vain endeavor to rejoin their families in the suburbs or the country.Here and there amid the humbler cabs towered the great brass-spangled motor-car of some wealthy magnate, wedged hopelessly among the dammed stream of arrested traffic.Just beneath us there was such a one of great size and luxurious appearance, with its owner, a fat old man, leaning out, half his gross body through the window, and his podgy hand, gleaming with diamonds, outstretched as he urged his chauffeur to make a last effort to break through the press.
A dozen motor-buses towered up like islands in this flood, the passengers who crowded the roofs lying all huddled together and across eash others' laps like a child's toys in a nursery.On a broad lamp pedestal in the centre of the roadway, a burly policeman was standing, leaning his back against the post in so natural an attitude that it was hard to realize that he was not alive, while at his feet there lay a ragged newsboy with his bundle of papers on the ground beside him.A paper-cart had got blocked in the crowd, and we could read in large letters, black upon yellow, "Scene at Lord's.County Match Interrupted." This must have been the earliest edition, for there were other placards bearing the legend, "Is It the End? Great Scientist's Warning." And another, "Is Challenger Justified? Ominous Rumours."Challenger pointed the latter placard out to his wife, as it thrust itself like a banner above the throng.I could see him throw out his chest and stroke his beard as he looked at it.It pleased and flattered that complex mind to think that London had died with his name and his words still present in their thoughts.His feelings were so evident that they aroused the sardonic comment of his colleague.
"In the limelight to the last, Challenger," he remarked.
"So it would appear," he answered complacently."Well," he added as he looked down the long vista of the radiating streets, all silent and all choked up with death, "I really see no purpose to be served by our staying any longer in London.I suggest that we return at once to Rotherfield and then take counsel as to how we shall most profitably employ the years which lie before us."Only one other picture shall I give of the scenes which we carried back in our memories from the dead city.It is a glimpse which we had of the interior of the old church of St.Mary's, which is at the very point where our car was awaiting us.
Picking our way among the prostrate figures upon the steps, we pushed open the swing door and entered.It was a wonderful sight.The church was crammed from end to end with kneeling figures in every posture of supplication and abasement.At the last dreadful moment, brought suddenly face to face with the realities of life, those terrific realities which hang over us even while we follow the shadows, the terrified people had rushed into those old city churches which for generations had hardly ever held a congregation.There they huddled as close as they could kneel, many of them in their agitation still wearing their hats, while above them in the pulpit a young man in lay dress had apparently been addressing them when he and they had been overwhelmed by the same fate.He lay now, like Punch in his booth, with his head and two limp arms hanging over the ledge of the pulpit.It was a nightmare, the grey, dusty church, the rows of agonized figures, the dimness and silence of it all.We moved about with hushed whispers, walking upon our tip-toes.
And then suddenly I had an idea.At one corner of the church, near the door, stood the ancient font, and behind it a deep recess in which there hung the ropes for the bell-ringers.Why should we not send a message out over London which would attract to us anyone who might still be alive? I ran across, and pulling at the list-covered rope, I was surprised to find how difficult it was to swing the bell.Lord John had followed me.
"By George, young fellah!" said he, pulling off his coat.
"You've hit on a dooced good notion.Give me a grip and we'll soon have a move on it."But, even then, so heavy was the bell that it was not until Challenger and Summerlee had added their weight to ours that we heard the roaring and clanging above our heads which told us that the great clapper was ringing out its music.Far over dead London resounded our message of comradeship and hope to any fellow-man surviving.It cheered our own hearts, that strong, metallic call, and we turned the more earnestly to our work, dragged two feet off the earth with each upward jerk of the rope, but all straining together on the downward heave, Challenger the lowest of all, bending all his great strength to the task and flopping up and down like a monstrous bull-frog, croaking with every pull.It was at that moment that an artist might have taken a picture of the four adventurers, the comrades of many strange perils in the past, whom fate had now chosen for so supreme an experience.For half an hour we worked, the sweat dropping from our faces, our arms and backs aching with the exertion.Then we went out into the portico of the church and looked eagerly up and down the silent, crowded streets.Not a sound, not a motion, in answer to our summons.
"It's no use.No one is left," I cried.
"We can do nothing more," said Mrs.Challenger."For God's sake, George, let us get back to Rotherfield.Another hour of this dreadful, silent city would drive me mad."We got into the car without another word.Lord John backed her round and turned her to the south.To us the chapter seemed closed.Little did we foresee the strange new chapter which was to open.
