The Great Gatsby

“How’d it happen?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I know nothing whatever about mechanics,” he said decisively.

“But how did it happen? Did you run into the wall?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Owl Eyes, washing his hands of the whole
matter. “I know very little about driving—next to nothing. It
happened, and that’s all I know.”

“Well, if you’re a poor driver you oughtn’t to try driving at night.”

“But I wasn’t even trying,” he explained indignantly, “I wasn’t even
trying.”

An awed hush fell upon the bystanders.

“Do you want to commit suicide?”

“You’re lucky it was just a wheel! A bad driver and not even trying!”

“You don’t understand,” explained the criminal. “I wasn’t driving.
There’s another man in the car.”

The shock that followed this declaration found voice in a sustained
“Ah-h-h!” as the door of the coupé swung slowly open. The crowd—it was
now a crowd—stepped back involuntarily, and when the door had opened
wide there was a ghostly pause. Then, very gradually, part by part, a
pale, dangling individual stepped out of the wreck, pawing tentatively
at the ground with a large uncertain dancing shoe.

Blinded by the glare of the headlights and confused by the incessant